


What the Water Gave Us

by ackermom



Series: What the Water Gave Us [1]
Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: 1950s, Angst, Boarding School, Ghosts, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Southern Gothic, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Vomiting, bury your gays
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 04:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 75,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7787581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ackermom/pseuds/ackermom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 1953. Summer is fast approaching, and the students at Trost School for the Gifted and Talented are in good spirits as they eagerly await the end of their exams. But soon they'll discover something isn't quite right at the austere boarding school: something that Reiner and Bertholdt are trying desperately to forget.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic comes with an author curated soundtrack. There will be one song at the top of each chapter, with a link to listen. I recommend listening to the songs, because I think they add a lot to the atmosphere, but you can choose to skip them if you want. But I really, really recommend listening to them (before or after you read, whatever you want). 
> 
> I plan to update every month on the 20th, but we'll see how that goes. I make no promises.
> 
> Please heed the tags and warnings. More tags may be added as the story progresses, so check them as we go along. 
> 
> Please enjoy! And I'm sorry in advance.

\--

"Ring a Bell" by Noah Gunderson

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/DTup/)

"I never talked to the devil  
But he's been talking to me"

\-- 

The blood lingered for only a moment. For the thinnest sliver of a split-second, it pooled like a halo across the stone patio, staining everything within its reach. And then it was gone. With a crack of lightning across the black sky, the puddle of red was swept away by a downpour of rain.

“He fell,” and Bertholdt was gasping at last, his fingers trembling as they brushed through his tousled hair. “He fell, Reiner, you saw that, right, he fell, he just-”

“He fell,” Reiner said.

He stared, distracted by the rain. It poured onto the patio, slapping against the stone. For every drop of rain that fell, another drop of blood leaked out, only to be swept away like loose sand in an oncoming tide. It captured him. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. But then he was coughing and choking, just as frantic as nail-biting Bertholdt.

“He fell,” nail-biting Bertholdt repeated.

They looked down together. They were standing, their bodies pressed together between the two open frames of the stained glass window that arched over their heads. It was a terrific view, usually. When the sun rose over the forest in the early morning, it cast a rosy glow over the valley and reflected off every golden flower in the school gardens. Reiner liked to look out over the grounds in the mornings, with a stolen cup of coffee and a secret cigarette, biding the time until the chapel bell rang for breakfast, commenting to an absent Bertholdt (he was always there in spirit, though really he was hanging off the bed in his sleep) on which manicured hedges looked the most phallic that day. Sometimes he would flick his cigarette ashes on the track team, who gathered on the patio below to stretch after their morning practice.

There was no one down there that night. Well, not anymore.

They looked down together. Marco’s head had split open on the stone patio, and as the blood spread around him, the rain drove it away, down the steps and into the grass until it disappeared. It seemed to just keep coming, even after as much had poured out as Reiner thought possible. It just kept coming. He never knew a body could hold so much blood: a warm, human body.

Somehow the view wouldn’t be as terrific anymore.

“He fell,” Reiner echoed.

“Shit,” Bertholdt said. “Oh shit.”

\--

Trost School for the Gifted and Talented- “talented how,” Reiner had said with a smirk, and that was how he spent his first weekend at boarding school in detention- was less of a school and more of a penitentiary. The students at Trost were no more gifted or talented than any of their peers at other schools across the south. Their parents just had expensive taste. They were the sons and daughters of the South’s wealthiest, the heirs of snakes who built their fortunes on oil and rum. Every corner of the school reeked of something just as prideful: from the elaborate stone masonry that worked around every curve of the outer walls, to the sprawling dual level library with leather bound books filling the dark wooden shelves. Even the name had an arrogance to it, as if anyone would be fooled by the notion that Trost’s pupils were “gifted and talented” in anything other than trouble.

Reiner had resisted the idea of boarding school, at first, but when he had arrived, that hot afternoon in September, he realized the other students were just like him: truants, rule-breakers, and criminals in the making. They were too troublesome for any normal school, but too rich to end up in juvie. Their parents had sent them away to keep them out of trouble, or else there may come a day when not even money would save them. Boarding school gave them the independence they needed. He wouldn’t call it freedom, exactly- school didn’t come without rules, and rules were found in abundance at Trost- but it was structure and stability: something most of them had never known at home.

It worked for Reiner, certainly. He would never say that he respected all the school rules- old habits die hard, and misfit habits especially- but he did his best to stay in line, God forbid he be sent back home. And it worked for Bertholdt, too. At least Reiner thought so.

“My parents thought this fancy place was better than juvie,” Reiner had said when he flopped down next to Bertholdt in his first detention session. “Although, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything bad enough to land me in juvie, at least not yet.”

Bertholdt had merely glanced at him, at first. He had stared at Reiner over his homework- what kind of kid would willingly do homework when stuck in detention on a beautiful Saturday afternoon?- and then finally, he had cracked a smile.

“Yeah,” he had said, his voice low. “Me too.”

Reiner had cocked his head. “What are you in here for?” he had asked.

“You mean, generally? My parents think I’m a fuck-up.”

An honest kid, that’s who. “No,” Reiner had said. “I mean, in detention. What did you do?”

“Oh. I was late for class.”

Reiner had furrowed his brow. “Geez, you got Saturday detention for being late to class?”

“Oh, well…” Bertholdt had glanced up at him again. “I was late for two weeks in a row. I’m a heavy sleeper, see, so…”

That was where it began: two kids whispering in detention. There was something about the two of them together that he could never put a name on. They were different from their peers, somehow. They had something that no one else did, or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe everyone else was special, and maybe they were the ones lacking. Whatever the case, they were different: not a cut above the rest, necessarily, just a cut apart. They were just as bored, jus as hungry, just as young and dumb, just as normal as all the others. Except that they weren’t.

Perhaps it was Trost itself that was special.

The school sat atop a low hill. It was a menacing presence that loomed over the flowering fields that sprawled westwards past the front doors, and it was an overwhelming sight to behold at first glance. A narrow sandy drive emerged from the thick woods around the school, suddenly bursting into the light of the open fields, and looped around to the front of the building. Towering walls of taupe stone met the eye first, followed by the unpruned scrolling ivy that scaled the building from ground to sky. The drive came around the front of the north wing, passing stained glass windows and thorny rose bushes. Then it curved into an open lot before the front doors, a gravel courtyard between the two long wings of the building that gave a solemn welcome. The school gardens were a feature to behold as well; they lay to the back of the building, thick with magnolia trees, flowering bushes, and a maze of shrubbery. To the south lay the tennis court and the open field that improvised for a baseball diamond. A thick, swampy forest surrounded the school, stretching past the fields, and reached for miles on every side. The road through the woods was the only way in or out, and it was an isolated path that took travelers through the densest parts of the forest. Rumor had it that the Trost complex had been built as a remote asylum in the last century. But that rumor had been thoroughly researched and squashed by the end of their first month at Trost.

“An asylum?” Armin had exclaimed one night over supper. “I don’t know who told you that, but Trost has always been a school.”

“How do you know?” Eren had asked, incredulous. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“I think he can,” Reiner had said through a mouthful of potatoes, but Eren had ignored him.

“Armin, for all we know, this place could be an old war fort or something!”

Armin had merely shaken his head. “The school was built after the civil war,” he had said. “And it’s always been a school. Look, if you don’t believe me, there are plenty of old yearbooks in the library. They go all the way back to the first graduating class in the 1880s.”

“We’ve been here for three weeks,” Sasha had said suddenly from across the table. “And you’ve already read all the yearbooks in the library?”

“I mean, I haven’t read _all_ of them-”

Trost had always been a place of its own. An eerie air ran through the school and its sprawling gardens and secret passageways. It had stillness, and it was captivating. The whole place felt like something from another time, standing still in its own little world, protected by the surrounding woods.

\--

That same eerie air swallows Reiner and Bertholdt on the foggy Monday morning that greets them as they emerge from the woods on the school’s dirt drive. The school van shuffles along the road as the sun rises over the valley, casting its warm light over the mist that gathers on the edge of the forest. Reiner sits at the wheel, stone-faced. Beside him, Bertholdt stares ahead listlessly. Dirt clouds puff up under the wheels of the van as it goes, and Reiner steers it around to the south side of the school building, where it slips off the path and trundles into its parking spot beside the staff entrance. When the engine shutters off, an overwhelming silence shrouds them.

Keys dangling in one hand, the other still hanging onto the steering wheel, Reiner glances sideways at Bertholdt, who hasn’t moved. “We need to put these back,” he says.

No response.

“Bert.”

Bertholdt sighs. “I heard you.”

They clamber out of the van, drawing the doors closed as their wet shoes hit the ground. Their bodies are sore, their legs soaked, their eyes heavy with the restlessness of a sleepless night. They trudge through the grass around to the front of the school. They shuffle as quietly as possible as they slip up the steps and into the front hall. The door creaks as it falls shut, and Bertholdt winces. Their shoes tap against the marble floor, leaving traces of muddy footprints as they walk, Reiner leading them forward. He heads for the administrative office on the side of the hall. The door eases open, and Reiner creeps inside, the car keys grasped in his palm. The office is quiet this early in the morning, but Reiner moves carefully anyways as he starts down the narrow hallway adjacent to the front desk. The dean’s office is just at the end of the hall. But a shadow plays across the far wall and he jumps. Backing out, he rounds the corner and runs into Bertholdt.

“What?” Bertholdt whispers, his eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s here,” Reiner hisses. He nods down the hall, and Bertholdt cranes his neck to peer, leaning over Reiner’s shoulder. “The dean’s already here. Don’t look! She might see you.”

Bertholdt rubs his eyes. “Shit. We just have to go, then.”

The keys jingle as Reiner holds them up in front of Bertholdt’s face. “What about these?” he hisses. “We took them from her office. She’s going to notice if they’re missing.”

“I know, I know…” Bertholdt trails off, glancing around. “Just drop them on the front desk! We’ve got to!”

“The keys didn’t just walk out of her office, Bertholdt, don’t you think she’ll wonder how they got here?”

Bertholdt snatches the keys and tosses them onto the desk. They land with a clink. “It’s almost seven,” he whispers, grabbing Reiner by the arm. “Let’s go!”

Streaks of sunrise peak through the stained glass, shining over their tired eyes and casting colors over them as they slip back into the main hall and sneak up the main staircase. Their footsteps echo through the school. Bertholdt, in the back, glances over his shoulder. But there is no one there. The rest of the school slumbers as the day rises over the valley, casting orange rays of sunlight through every window they pass. They tiptoe past the library, past the common room, and around the corner into the south wing, just as the chapel bell rings, marking the daybreak. The eleventh year dormitories lie the farthest down the wing, built into an octagonal tower that looks over the flowering fields. Reiner leads them straight to the dormitory washrooms, their damp shoes squeaking across the floor behind them.

Reiner has hardly splashed water over his face before he hears the bathroom door swing open. A crowd of boys spills in, chatting and griping between yawns. They fill the bathroom, and shower heads turn on one after the other, straight down the line. A passing senior slaps his towel against Reiner’s shower curtain, and Reiner jumps.

“Leave some hot water for the rest of us, Braun,” he laughs, and his voice fades as he walks away. “What time did you get up, geez?”

He means to respond, or to make some wiseass crack, but his throat tightens around itself. He can barely open his mouth. The tight weight spreads to his chest, clenching over his heart. He closes his eyes to let the water run over his face, and in his stillness, he can hear the blood running through his veins, pulsing around inside of him until the pressure grows unbearably tight and he wants to scream. He almost does. Eyes clenched shut, he fumbles for the shower handle, his hands slapping against the wet tile wall until he finds it. He twists the handle, and icy water splashes down on him. He coughs. But the tension through his shoulders eases, and suddenly he feels like he can breathe again.

In the next stall, he hears the shower head squeak as it is cranked off. He follows suit, splashing one last handful of cold water over his face before he grabs his towel and heads back to the dormitory. Bertholdt is already there waiting for him, but they are not alone. Eren and Armin linger on the other side of the octagonal room, rolling up their sweaty jerseys from morning track practice. Reiner’s gut clenches when he sees that. But he says nothing to them, instead collapsing into a hunch on the edge of his bed. He glances up at Bertholdt, who sits across from Reiner on his own bed, combing his hair and staring ahead, distant. Reiner rubs his eyes with a sigh. The track team usually runs on a trail through the south woods. They probably didn’t see anything.

Bertholdt glances across at him. “You look like shit,” is all he says, but he does it so nonchalantly, like he doesn’t know _exactly_ why they both look like shit, that Reiner almost asks if he’s lost his god damn mind.

From across the room, Armin peers at them. “You two got up early today,” he says. He crosses towards them and leans against the wooden beam that stands alone in the center of the room, rolling his socks up into a ball as he talks. “I thought maybe we’d see you at practice or something.”

“Armin,” Reiner sighs, “have you ever known either of us to willingly get up that early to run?”

Armin raises an eyebrow. “It must have been something important then.”

Reiner reaches for his comb. “Yeah. We were studying for that Latin quiz. Bert thinks he’s failing the class, so, you know.”

Bertholdt throws him an irritated glance, but he says nothing. Armin looks between them, eyebrows raised, but he shrugs and turns away. “You know you could’ve asked me for help,” he says as he crosses back to his bed to collect his things. “Sasha’s pretty good at Latin, too.”

Reiner runs the comb through his hair. “Yeah,” he says with a sigh. “Maybe we’ll study more this afternoon before class.”

He says nothing else, just turns to get his uniform ready for the day. Bertholdt follows his lead, and they dress in silence as Armin and Eren carry on their conversation on the other side of the room. Reiner breathes in as he buttons his shirt: breathes out on the next button. Breathes in, breathes out. _Breathe in…. breathe out_.

\--

The students bustle as they enter the classroom, their school shoes scuffing the wooden floors as they spill out over the desks. It’s a typical Monday morning at Trost: groans about the homework, chats about plans for the summer, jokes about whatever funny thing happened this weekend. There is a humdrum buzz that echoes through the students, the way their sit on their desks, even though they know the teacher will come in at any moment. Reiner and Bertholdt linger in the doorway a moment, surveying the scene. It is their classroom. It has been their classroom for nearly the three years they have been at Trost. Yet this morning it is an entirely unfamiliar scene.

Bertholdt says nothing. He slinks past Reiner and dutifully takes his seat next to the window, at the back. He passes by the other students, wordless, his head down. But something tugs at Reiner; the everyday rhythm of the classroom pulses, inviting him in. It pulls at him, at his heart, at his lungs, as if the very essence of his being will disappear if he does not let himself be pulled into the routine of his classmates’ lives. No one will mind if Bertholdt is tired and absent today. He is always quiet; he can go by entirely unnoticed if he wants to. But Reiner is a presence, and a visible presence at that.

He feels compelled to slip into the circle of students that have gathered in the center of the classroom, to reassure the world that everything is fine.

Ymir is talking when Reiner joins the circle. It’s full of the usual suspects: Ymir, Historia, Eren, Mikasa, Jean, and Mina, all lounging about on their desks, their ties a little too crooked. From where she sits on her desk, Ymir sighs, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “Anyways,” she says. “I expect I’m off to somewhere new this summer, probably the ancient house of a distant relative who knows too little about my delinquent self to know that they shouldn’t take me in just to get on my mother’s good side.”

“Your mother is one powerful son of a bitch,” Jean says from the other side of the circle. “It wouldn’t hurt anyone to get on her good side.”

Ymir shrugs. “I mean, she’s also just a bitch. But she has money, so I guess it doesn’t matter, really. The consequences of my shitty attitude can always be paid off.”

A familiar laughter trickles through the circle. It’s the same story for all of them, and it’s a story they’ve told time and time again.

“What has the summer got in for you, Mr. Fancy Pants?” Ymir asks. Jean pauses, raising an eyebrow as he glances around the circle for affirmation.

“Oh, me?”

“Yeah, you, dumbass.”

“Geez.” He stuffs his hands in his pockets. “I don’t know yet. It’s not like my parents can be bothered to do anything with me other than keep me occupied, and, I mean, we all know how that goes.”

He trails off, shrugging, and the others nod. Ymir glances sideways at Reiner, who has slipped into the circle beside her.

“What about you, handsome?”

“Handsome, geez! I didn’t know you felt that way, Ymir.”

“It was a joke, you grandpa.”

Reiner grins, play-clutching at his heart. “You wound me, my dear.”

At her quip, he immediately feels at ease. His heart slows down, back to a steady tattoo, and his breath comes naturally and easy. This is where he belongs. Everything is back to normal, and everything is going to be fine. He leans back against a desk and shrugs. “My old man wrote me last week, says I’m coming home for the summer. It must be time for some heartwarming family bonding.”

Ymir laughs, reaching down to intentionally slouch her knee socks. “What, like he thinks you’re not a fuck-up anymore?”

“Trost has changed me,” Reiner says seriously, but he smiles. “I can conjugate Latin verbs in four different tenses, and I’ve developed a swell serve in tennis.”

From his other side, the tiny Historia smiles. “You’ve seen the light,” she says.

“I’ve seen the light,” Reiner repeats. “I ain’t a delinquent no more.”

The group flutters with laughter again, but it is not a moment more before a pair of heels click into the classroom and stop sharply in the doorway.

“What is this?” the teacher cries.

The students scramble to their feet, falling deathly silent as Miss Brzenska glares at them over her glasses, her lips pursed. “This is chaos,” she barks. “I will not tolerate this kind of disorder in my classroom. You know you are to wait quietly in your seats until the teacher arrives. Is that understood?”

A weary, “Yes, Miss Brzenska,” floats up from the students, and she sends them scurrying to their seats with a simple snap of her fingers. She continues to her desk and sets her books down. It’s another moment or two before she glances up at the empty seat in the front row.

“Where is Mr. Bodt?” she asks.

The students all glance at the empty desk, then at each other. Reiner catches a curious glance from Armin, who raises his eyebrows as if to ask if he’s seen Marco. Reiner shrugs back. The rest of the class is silent.

“Has anyone seen Marco this morning?” Miss Brzenska asks, clearly irritated at their lack of answers. When no one responds, she purses her lips. “Was he at breakfast?”

From the back of the classroom, Connie raises a hesitant hand.

“Yes, Mr. Springer?”

Connie stands, shrugging. “I thought I saw him in the bathroom this morning, Miss. Just from the back, but I’m pretty sure it was him.”

From the front, Sasha’s hand darts into the air. “He’s probably sick or something, Miss. He’s never missed class before.”

Miss Brzenska sighs, picking up her roster book. “Yes, that’s why I’m worried. He was on prefect duty last night, correct?”

The students nod.

She marks something down on her roster and turns to the chalkboard. “Very well,” she says, beginning to write. “We shall give Mr. Bodt a chance to show himself. If he does not make it to lunch, will one of the boys go upstairs to check on him?”

She glances over her shoulder. “Mr. Kirschstein?”

Jean glances up. “Uh, yes, Miss.”

“Good. Now let’s begin, class, with a review of linear equations…”

\--

An hour of math, an hour of literature, an hour of history. Reiner blurs through each lesson, like any other school day. He draws in the margins of his notebook instead of taking notes, he doesn’t know the answer to a simple question when the teacher calls on him, and he is half-asleep when the class is finally dismissed for lunch at noon.

Bertholdt, on the other hand, does not fare so well. Reiner catches up with him on the way to the dining hall. He’s behind all the others, his footsteps slow and laborious as he purposely drags himself behind the hungry crowd of students, and when Reiner places a hand on his shoulder, he nearly jumps out of his skin, cursing.

“Jesus,” he cries, stumbling as he leaps in surprise.

Reiner retracts his hand. “Whoa, doesn’t let the teach hear that mouth of yours.”

Bertholdt looks at him, something uncomfortable lingering in his eyes. His face is unsettled: his skin pale, his eyes hollow, his gaze both exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. Reiner wants to say something, to ask him about the fear in his eyes, but Bertholdt turns his head before Reiner can possibly think of something to say.

“Reiner,” he says, his voice falling. They are trailing behind the other students, but they are still within hearing distance. “I don’t want to talk right now.”

“What, you want to wait until after lunch?”

They round a corner of the hallway, and while the pack of students ahead of them starts down the steps towards the dining hall, Bertholdt lingers back, catching Reiner’s arm to keep him there.

“I don’t want to talk about this at all,” he hisses. He’s pleading.

Reiner cocks his head, brow furrowed. “Bert,” he says. “We have to talk about this.”

Bertholdt gives him another withering glance before releasing his arm with a fury and heading down the steps, arms folding around the schoolbooks that he clenches to his chest. Reiner follows him, relentless.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asks, catching up to Bertholdt at the bottom of the stairs.

Bertholdt doesn’t seem to hear him at first. He keeps walking, his head bowed, his shoulders hunched. But after only a few steps, he seems to freeze. Then he turns around, glaring at Reiner.

“What’s the matter with me?” he echoes. His eyes narrow. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Me?” Reiner exclaims.

His voice seems to echo through the corridor. The dining hall is just around the corner, and the voices of the other students carry through to them. He steps towards Bertholdt, speaking softer.

“No, I’m asking you for a reason,” he says. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”

“I didn’t get any sleep last night,” Bertholdt says dully.

“I didn’t either, buddy. But you didn’t eat anything at breakfast. What’s the matter with you?”

Bertholdt purses his lips, books clenched against his stomach. “I’m not looking forward to lunch,” he says flatly. “I can’t bear the thought of- oh, God.”

He clasps a hand to his mouth suddenly and bowls over, his fingers clenching around the edges of the schoolbooks that he clenches to his chest with his other hand. Reiner moves to say something, to do something, but Bertholdt darts past him, brushing his shoulder, his shoes slapping against the stone floor as he runs into the washroom at the end of the staircase. Reiner stands for a moment. When he moves to follow, he’s startled for a moment by the sound of retching. Then he rushes into the bathroom behind Bertholdt, the door swinging wide in his wake.

Bertholdt’s schoolbooks are scattered across the bathroom floor, a trail that Reiner follows to the first stall, where he finds Bertholdt on his knees, coughing into the toilet. The dim bulb overhead flickers. The light is bright enough, but it reflects eerily off the avocado green tile walls and floors. The stall door is open, but Reiner knocks anyways; he hears Bertholdt groan in response.

“We need to talk,” Reiner says. He leans against the doorframe of the stall, hovering over Bertholdt, who hardly glances up at him. His head is bowed over the toilet, and he coughs a few more times before he responds.

“You want to talk now?” he mutters. His voice echoes through the toilet bowl. “Fine, whatever. What the hell is there to talk about?”

Reiner hesitates for a moment before answering. “This, for one,” he says, crossing his arms. “You’re fucked up.”

“Yeah, well-” He coughs again, his head jerking violently. “Why do you think I’m so fucked up?”

“Look,” Reiner says, his voice soft and low. “I get it, okay?”

He pauses. The light overhead buzzes.

“It’s just, you’re being weird. And that doesn’t look good for us.”

“Spare me.”

“What if someone asks why you’re sick, huh? What’s your excuse?”

Bertholdt clenches a fist against the seat of the toilet. “Tell them I came down with the same thing Marco has.”

Barely a second passes before his words hit him. “Oh, God,” he groans, and he retches again.

Reiner grimaces. “Look, we gotta be cool. We agreed, remember, that we’re in this together?”

Bertholdt sighs. “Yeah, I remember.”

“So we’ve gotta talk.”

Bertholdt wordlessly holds out a hand, and Reiner passes him a few sheets of toilet paper. He wipes his mouth, flushes the toilet, and sits back on his feet, glancing up at Reiner.

“Fine,” he mutters. “What do we need to talk about?”

“Our story.”

Bertholdt furrows his brow. “Our story.”

Reiner nods. “We’ve gotta get it straight. You know this isn’t going to blow over in a day or two. They’ve already noticed. We’ve gotta be prepared for the police and shit.”

“Shit,” Bertholdt sighs. He collapses back, leaning against the stall wall to stare up at Reiner. “Ok, so what? What’s our story?”

Reiner shakes his head. “No, we gotta be thorough about it. Let’s talk after lunch, during free period. We’ll go to the library or something. Maybe we can actually study for the Latin quiz too, because I don’t think either of us know the first thing about forms of the ablative case.”

Bertholdt stares at him for a moment before sighing again. “I don’t understand how you’re so calm,” he mutters, but Reiner only shrugs. He doesn’t know either.

He scoots out of the stall and bends to pick up Bertholdt’s books where he threw them. “Come on, let’s get to lunch. We’re already late.”

“Ugh.” Bertholdt heaves himself to his feet, pushing his hair back, and he mutters thanks at the books that Reiner hands him.

“You’ve got to eat something,” Reiner says on their way out the door.

“I know. It’s just…”

He trails off, unable to find the words, but Reiner knows what he means. He claps him on the shoulder and leads them around the corner towards the dining hall. When they sit down at lunch, everyone’s heads turn. Bertholdt says nothing, just bends his head over his plate and stirs his soup intently, but Reiner raises his eyebrows.

“What?” he asks.

“It’s weird for you to be late for lunch,” Connie says from across the table. “I mean, you’re only outeaten by me and Sasha.”

“You and Sasha combined, maybe,” he says, grinning, and the mood lifts again.

The normal chatter resumes across the table. Reiner listens to Connie’s rant about math class, nodding and interjecting where is necessary, but he keeps a careful eye on Bertholdt, who stares listlessly at the bread and soup that stares back at him. From the other end of the table, he can hear an argument starting: Jean made the mistake of sitting too close to Eren, and Armin is too engaged in his debate with Franz to bother preventing anything. In the middle, Ymir and Historia are trying to rope Annie into some absurd game involving a paper fortuneteller. When he glances back up at Connie, Sasha has suddenly appeared beside him, squeezed in between two seats.

“Armin told me,” she says, and Bertholdt flings his spoon across the table.

Reiner stares at him, but Sasha and Connie seem only amused. As the spoon is passed back down the table, hand to hand, Bertholdt covers his flustered face.

“Sorry,” he mutters. “Weird reflexes.”

“Anyways,” Sasha drawls, leaning in. “He told me that y’all got up extra early to study for the Latin quiz. I can help you, if you want. I was going to take a nap during free period, but I could use a review anyways…”

“I think we’ll be fine,” Bertholdt says.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

Reiner waves her off. “It’s fine, Sasha. It’s our own fault for not paying attention in class.”

Connie scoffs. “What, you think she pays attention?”

“Hey!”

“No, she’s just freaky good at languages.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Mr. Springer. I was the worst at French.”

\--

Students scatter for the free afternoon period as soon as lunch breaks. Some make their way back up to the dormitories to nap or write letters home. Others play cards in the common room, and a select few gather to start that day’s homework. Reiner and Bertholdt take off on their own.

They try the library first. The dark, cool spaces between rows of books provides the perfect relief from the humid afternoon, but study groups have gathered at tables across the room. They would certainly be overhead. They leave, unassuming, and trail through the empty corridors to find a place to talk. They round corners, climb staircases, check classrooms; but it seems there is someone in every spot of the school, curled up with a book or gathered with a few friends. The clock is running out on free period when Reiner finally leads them outside and into the maze of gardens behind the school.

“It’s hot as hell,” Bertholdt mutters.

They trudge deep into the hedge maze together, glancing over their shoulders, the sunlight burning down on their skin. Clouds of dust kick up at their feet as they seclude themselves further into the gardens. When they finally come to the center of the maze, they collapse onto a small stone bench. Reiner tugs his tie loose. Bertholdt is right, but it’s not just the heat. The air hangs heavy with water, and the sun is scorching. But if it means they won’t be overheard, then it’s worth it. They sit for a few minutes, fanning themselves, until finally Bertholdt breaks the silence.

“Alright,” he says.

Reiner’s head snaps up to look at him. “What?”

“You’re the one who said we needed to talk,” Bertholdt says. Underneath the sun, his face beams red with heat, but the bags under his eyes are as dark as ever. “So, alright, let’s talk.”

Reiner hunches over, setting his elbows on his knees. He stares at his feet and pauses for a moment, twisting his shoes into the gravel until he digs into the dirt beneath, before he responds. “Right,” he sighs. “We need to get our story straight.”

He hears Bertholdt’s breath still. “Our alibi,” Bertholdt says.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Reiner says. “I think we should keep it simple.”

Across the valley, bugs hum and buzz, stirring the thick air with their songs. Bertholdt fidgets, glancing away, and for a moment he stares distantly at the forest on the horizon, his gaze lost, before turning back to Reiner, wiping sweat from his forehead. “Alright,” he says. “So what’s our story then?”

“We tell the truth,” Reiner says.

Bertholdt raises an eyebrow. “…the truth?”

“As much of the truth as we can,” Reiner says. “We were at study hall with everyone else, and we were finishing the math homework that was due today. After study hall, we got ready for bed and we were reading during quiet hours. And then… after that, it was just like any other night. We were in bed by lights out.”

“Just like any other night,” Bertholdt repeats.

“Simple’s best, right?” Reiner asks. “Last night wasn’t anything special to anyone else, so if we stick with the routine of a normal night…”

Bertholdt rubs his eyes. “I guess.”

“Then that’s the truth from now on.”

Bertholdt glances sideways at him. “Swear to God and hope to die?”

“Buddy, I don’t swear to any god. I thought you knew me better.”

Bertholdt smiles at that, but it’s a worn half-smile and it vanishes almost instantly. “What if someone says they didn’t see us at lights out? Because, you know, we weren’t actually there.”

“Who cares what those goons say?” Reiner says. “The senior prefect saw us when he came by to do his check just before lights out, right before we left. We’ve got an authority figure on our side.”

“Someone might have seen us leave,” Bertholdt insists. “We weren’t exactly being sneaky. It’s not like we knew something was going to happen.”

Reiner shakes his head. “Come on, who’s gonna say that? Everyone was trying to finish their reading. If anyone asks, we went to the bathroom.”

Bertholdt sighs. “Alright, fine. And, I mean, why would they look at us more closely than anyone else? They don’t have any reason to suspect us of anything. All they’re going to know is that he’s gone.”

He trails off, glancing across at Reiner. “Right?”

Reiner squints into the sunlight. “Yeah, of course. I mean, we hardly knew him.”

At that, Bertholdt’s shoulders tense. “Do you think they’ve figured it out?” he says, his voice soft, and Reiner furrows his brow.

“What?”

He glances across at Reiner. His expression is flat, but his eyes are dark again. “Jean was supposed to check on him,” he says. “Because Miss Brzenska thought he was just sick in bed or something, but when Jean realizes he isn’t there…”

He trails off. Reiner looks down at his feet: his school shoes, dusty from the path, half-buried in the gravel. “You’re right,” he mutters. “They must have figured out by now that he’s gone.”

\--

He fails the Latin quiz- just about what he expected. The geography lesson after that passes in a monotonous rhythm, and it’s only when supper is halfway over that the students notice something unusual is brewing. From their long table on one side of the dining hall, they watch as teachers gather, one at a time, to join the dean herself, hands folded behind her back, in the quiet conversation that seems to enthrall them. Reiner cranes his neck to get a better look. But even if he can see them, he can’t hope to hear a single world they’re saying, not over the clamor of students at dinner. He can feel Bertholdt’s nervous gaze on him. He leans over and nudges Sasha.

“Hey,” he says, “do you know what’s going on?”

Sasha glances at him, raising an eyebrow. “You haven’t heard?”

His shoulders tighten. “Heard what?”

Sasha shrugs, pushing food around on her plate with her fork. “I don’t know the whole story,” she says, “but Jean and Armin went to check on Marco this afternoon, like Miss Brzenska asked, and he wasn’t in the dormitory. The gossip is that the teachers think he’s missing or something, but-” She shrugs again- “I don’t know how that could be true.”

Across from Sasha, Connie glances up, his brow furrowed. “How can he just go missing?”

The same question is murmured up and down the table, passed from one student to the next, until the worrisome rumor has spread, at least through the junior class. At its heart, Reiner reminds himself, watching the gossip unfold down the table, it is just a rumor. There hasn’t been any sort of official word from the faculty. Someone probably just overheard the teachers saying something. Sasha, for one, is surely keen on reassuring their whole class that there must be a reasonable explanation for all of this. Marco is one of their prefects, and everyone knows he’s a good, responsible guy. But the talk continues, regardless. After all, people don’t just disappear.

“I mean, what is this really about?” Historia exclaims after the conversation hits a breaking point. “He can’t really be missing. Can he?”

“They look pretty worried,” Connie says, tossing his head to gesture at the door where the teachers have gathered.

“He’s probably just sick or something,” Sasha repeats. Jean glances at her.

“He wasn’t in the dorms when Armin and I went to look.”

“Maybe it’s serious, maybe he went to the school nurse or something.”

“Maybe he had to go to the hospital,” Eren pipes in suddenly, but Armin is already shaking his head.

“And none of the teachers knew? No, something weird is going on.”

“If he was sick, he would have told one of us,” Jean says. “It just doesn’t make sense.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Historia echoes, but she says nothing else for a moment or two, just stares at her fork as she racks her brain. Eventually, she exclaims, “When was the last time anyone saw him?”

Gazes immediately turn to Connie. “You said you saw him in the showers this morning,” Eren says.

Connie glances up, a spoonful of soup halfway to his mouth. “I said I thought I saw him.”

“What does that mean?” Ymir mutters under her breath from across the table.

Connie glares at her. “I saw someone from the back and I thought it was him! But it could’ve been someone else, I guess- dark hair, tallish. I don’t know, maybe it was him, maybe it wasn’t.”

“Gee, that’s a real help.”

“Look, I thought it was him!”

The argument continues. At the end of the table, Bertholdt looks across to Reiner, who glances away from the conversation to meet his gaze. “What?” Reiner says. He speaks softly, to let the conversation around them carry on.

Bertholdt just rubs his eyes. His food has barely been touched. “Nothing,” he says. “I’m just tired.”

Reiner reaches for his glass. “You could skip study hall and take another nap.”

Bertholdt glances up at him. His brow is furrowed, as if in anger, but the bags under his eyes are too heavy to discern anything besides exhaustion. “Are you serious?” he asks.

Reiner raises an eyebrow. “Yeah. Why?”

“You said it yourself,” Bertholdt mutters. “We need to stick with our normal routine. On a normal Monday night, what would we be doing?”

“Playing tennis. Or cards. Or chess. Literally anything other than studying.”

“Come on.”

“Okay, fine,” Reiner sighs. “We’ll go to study hall, like any other night.”

\--

They don’t have much of a choice, as it turns out. Study hall proceeds as usual for only half an hour, and Reiner gets away with not studying at all. He fully intended to finish his geography homework, mostly because Bertholdt insisted that they put their minds to something useful- put their minds to something else, is what he meant- but as soon as they’d dragged their schoolbooks into the common room, Eren and Armin had flagged them down for a game of chess and, well, who can say no to a little friendly competition? Bertholdt plays Armin; he loses, of course, he’s terrible at chess. But Reiner watches him as he plays. He’s relaxed, for what must be the first time all day, and he cracks a smile at one of Eren’s jokes.

Their game is interrupted by a flurry of confused students, bursting suddenly into the common room and filling every corner with their murmuring chatter. Bertholdt sits upright immediately, his entire body tensing again. The other three stare out over the sudden crowd, their mouths agape.

“I said something was going on,” Armin says. The newcomers are flustered, interrupted, and they find odd places to sit once the armchairs and desks fill up, spilling onto the coffee tables and against the bookshelves as if waiting for something. Mikasa appears suddenly in the midst of the crowd, and she makes a beeline for the chess table in the back corner, the other third year students trailing behind her.

“What’s going on?” Eren exclaims when she approaches.

She purses her lips. “The teachers are gathering all the students here,” she says, leaning against the back wall. “The dean has some kind of announcement.”

An unsettling silence falls over the group, and they don’t have to wait long to find out what they’re all thinking. When the dean enters the common room, a flock of anxious teachers behind her, the students immediately fall silent. She is an imposing presence: taciturn and austere, the living image of the school itself. She folds her hands behind her back and stands before the gathered crowd of students. They fill every nook of the room; those who have no seat stand. She surveys the crowd briefly, her sharp gaze flicking over their faces before she addresses them.

“Good evening, students,” she begins. There is no response from the students, who glance at each other in curiosity. “You have been gathered together to hear an important announcement, and I would advise each of you to listen with apt attention.”

From the very back of the room, Reiner can hardly read the expression on her face. But he can hear the edge in her voice, how she speaks definitively and precisely. He glances across the chess table to Bertholdt, who sits rigidly, his knuckles white as his hand clenches against the king piece in his hand.

“Beginning tonight,” the dean continues, “and continuing until the end of the semester, there will be a mandatory curfew in effect at Trost.”

Murmurs flurry among the students. They glance at each other, passing worried whispers and question. The third year students, sequestered in the back corner, though just as perturbed by this new, remain still, waiting to hear what they know is coming. The dean continues over the whispers, her gaze hardening, and the room is soon silent again.

“Students are to be in the dormitories at nine o’clock, precisely,” she says. “Lights out will continue to commence at half past ten o’clock. Students are to remain in their dormitories from the curfew hour through the night until the morning bell at seven.

“Your prefects will post a reminder of the new hours in your dormitory, so there is no excuse for any rule breaking. Students who decide not to abide by these new rules shall be disciplined accordingly. If there are any questions-”

She has barely finished the word before a hand shoots up at the back of the room. Their third years all turn their gazes up at Armin, who has rocketed from his seat and is reaching as far as he can with his raised hand, his fingers wiggling as he stares at the dean. She hesitates for a moment, looking cautiously at him. Then: “Yes, Mr. Arlert?”

All gazes turn to focus on Armin, who drops his hand and says bluntly, “Miss, does this have anything to do with Marco Bodt?”

A profound silence follows his words. The younger students, confused, start whispering among each other, but by now, the junior and senior classes are fully aware of the rumors circulating. The dean seems at a loss for words. Certainly she didn’t expect such a question, especially not put so bluntly, but she sighs reluctantly, as if resigned to accept the circumstances.

“Let me be frank,” she says, turning her gaze back to the crowd of students. “You may have heard some rumors this afternoon. And I would encourage you all to use your discretion upon hearing such stories. They are simply rumors.

“With that being said, rumors are often founded in truth,” she says. She glances up at Armin, who is still standing like a beacon at the back of the common room. “Unfortunately, Mr. Arlert, this is one such case.”

“So he is missing,” Jean exclaims suddenly, leaping up beside Armin.

The dean narrows her eyes. “Raise your hand before you ask a question, Mr. Kirschstein.”

Jean doesn’t get a chance, because Armin’s hand has flown up again. “Please,” he says without waiting for the dean to call on him. “He’s our friend and our classmate. We deserve to know if he’s in trouble.”

Determined as she is to not give them what they want, she caves. “Nothing has been confirmed,” she starts, and the students are suddenly at attention, hanging onto her every word. “But detectives from the state will be arriving tomorrow morning. I am sure they will find Mr. Bodt, safe and sound.”

She pauses on those last words. She stares out at the students with a blank face, and although her hesitancy only lasts a moment or two, it stirs something among the students. The dean is never ill composed. Reiner glances across at Bertholdt, who has sat back in his chair, eyes closed, a hand clasped over his brow.

The dean’s lips twitch, and she seems restless, almost irritated, as if she knows she should not have said anything.

“Put it out of your minds,” she says finally. “Your final exams are approaching, and it would not do any of you good to worry yourselves senseless.”

When the night comes, the students are in their dormitories at nine on the dot. Their bedside lanterns chase shadows across the walls as they gather on their beds with bibles and textbooks, and they whisper worried words to each other instead of settling down like they’re supposed to. Reiner lies out on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his bible strewn open to a random page and thrown at the end of his bed. He doesn’t remember what passage they’re supposed to be reading, but it doesn’t matter anyways: he never reads them anyways. He glances across at the bed to his left, where Bertholdt sits, his legs hanging over the edge, his chin clasped in his hands.

Feeling Reiner’s glance on him, he looks up. His face is shallow and pale; he looks worse than he has all day, and it pulls at Reiner’s heart.

“Hey,” he whispers. The other boys are gathered on their own beds, entranced in their conversation, but he speaks softly anyways, if only to ease Bertholdt’s mind.

Bertholdt takes a deep breath. “I don’t think I can go to sleep,” he says quietly.

Reiner can’t blame him, and he can’t help him. He doesn’t know what the answer is. He wants to tell Bertholdt to put it all out of his mind, to let go and live, but he knows what an unreasonable thing that would be to say. How can he put everything aside when an investigation looms over his head?

He glances out at the other boys. None of them are watching, too busy dissecting disappearance theories. Wordlessly, he drops one of his hands off the edge of his bed and holds it out, low enough to not be seen should anyone turn their head. Bertholdt watches his hand linger there for a moment, beckoning, before he swallows hard and reaches down to clasp Reiner’s hand in his. Their fingers are warm against each other, the warmest Reiner has felt all day. He does his best to smile.

“We’re in this together,” he whispers.

Eyes full as though he wants to cry, Bertholdt nods. “We’re in this together.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With the investigation underway, the weight of Reiner and Bertholdt's secret begins taking its toll.

\--

“Nothing But the Water” by Another Round 

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/T9eE/)

“We’re gonna wash our souls clean”

\--

Reiner wakes in pieces. He’s roused from sleep slowly, and he lingers in darkness for a few drowsy moments before he realizes that he’s awake. Then it comes in parts: first, the warm night air that engulfs the room and swallows him; then the bed sheets that scratch against his arms and make him twist and turn; then, finally, his eyes crack open and he squints into the darkness, trying to decipher whatever stirred him from his sleep. A single stroke of pale moonlight slips in through a crack in the blinds. It cases a glow over the wooden floor, from one side of the octagonal room to the other, and as Reiner stirs, blinking wearily, he follows the light to where it falls between two beds: his and Bertholdt’s. Then he sees Bertholdt, and he sighs.

It’s not unusual for Bertholdt to tangle himself up in his sheets; in fact, a normal night of sleep for him includes several bouts of unconscious thrashing. His classmates are accustomed to sleeping with their pillows over their heads. Still, something strikes Reiner this time, as he drags himself up on his elbow to watch Bertholdt sleep. He’s more restless than usual. He’s fidgeting, throwing arms and legs about, and even beyond that, he’s talking to himself. It’s not audible, and it’s certainly not anything that makes sense, but his murmuring is loud enough to have woken Reiner.

On Bertholdt’s other side, Reiner can see Jean’s dark outline; he rolls over and stuffs his pillow over his head, muttering, “Jesus Christ.” 

Reiner sits up, blinking in the darkness. Bertholdt jerks around in his sleep, and Reiner watches him for a moment more, perturbed by what to do; finally, after one of Bertholdt’s hands collides with the nightstand, resulting in a loud thud, Reiner drops his feet to the floor and slips out of bed. He shuffles over to Bertholdt and hovers over him, determined to wake him without disturbing anyone else. He taps his shoulder, but to no avail. He should’ve known. When Bertholdt’s hand goes flying again, Reiner catches his wrist in a tight grip and pulls, jerking Bertholdt upright and out of his slumber.

“Jesus!” he exclaims as he wakes, eyes flying wide open. “Oh my god, I- Reiner?”

“Hey,” Reiner whispers. Across the room someone groans. “You were about to fall out of your bed.”

Bertholdt stares at him for a moment, still blinking awake. In the darkness, Reiner can only make out the outline of his face, but his eyes shine brightly, lost and confused. “What?” Bertholdt whispers as Reiner drops his hand. He touches his face, lost in thought, and brushes his hair back. “I- I was dreaming…”

Reiner pats him on the shoulder. “Come on, let’s go talk in the bathroom.”

It’s not until they’ve hunkered down in the bathroom, Bertholdt collapsed on the floor against a stall door, Reiner standing over him, that he remembers the curfew. But rules be damned, this isn’t going to be solved whispering in the dormitory. He says nothing, simply crosses his arms and waits for Bertholdt to say something.

“I’m sorry,” Bertholdt finally says. Knees drawn up against his chest, he rests one elbow on his legs and clutches his and against his sweaty forehead. The other hand lies loose across the top of his legs. In the dim bathroom light, Reiner can see his fingers are shaking.

“I didn’t realize I was doing that,” Bertholdt continues. “I didn’t even realize I was dreaming. It all felt so real.”

Reiner remains silent, leaning against the wall. Bertholdt hesitates for another moment, staring across the bathroom floor, his eyes flickering over the blue and white tile as he searches for something to say. Somewhere in the bathroom, water drips; it echoes over them in their silence, and when he can no longer take it, Bertholdt sucks in a breath and speaks.

“I was drowning,” he says. His voice is flat. “I don’t know where I was. I mean, I couldn’t tell if it was a lake or a river or something. It was just water, as far as I could see. And at first- well, at first, I was just there, in the water, just floating there.”

He swallows. “But then, all of a sudden, everything turned black. And the water started gushing around me, and I started drowning. It was like I was being pulled down a drain, the way the water pooled around me as I went down. And eventually, it dragged me under and- God, it was so dark and cold and I couldn’t really see anything but I just felt- I mean, I knew that I was going to die.”

He pauses again, and in his silence, the dripping water continues. He shudders. “I really thought I was going to die,” he says, rubbing his eyes. “I know it was just a dream, but it all felt so real. And when you woke me up, and I wasn’t really sure where I was. For a moment there, I thought…”

He trails off. “I thought maybe I had died. I mean, how would I know the difference?”

His fingers brush back through his hair, clenching at his scalp, and he glances up at Reiner. “How can we tell?” he asks. “Right now, how do we know this is real? How do we know we’re not dead?”

Reiner raises his eyebrows. “ _Jesus_ , Bert.”

Bertholdt shakes his head, turning his face back down to the floor. “I know, I know,” he mutters. “I’m just shaken up about it, that’s all. I mean, it was so real and I kept thinking it was probably so much like…”

He trails off again.

“Well,” he sighs, “you know.”

Suddenly the bathroom door swings open, and Armin comes trudging around the corner, his pajama pants dragging on the tile floor. “Hey,” he says with a yawn.

“I’m so sorry,” Bertholdt exclaims, sitting upright, but Armin shakes his head.

“It’s fine.” He blinks at them. “I mean, you kind of woke us all up. But we’ll forgive you if we get to sleep through the rest of the night.”

He holds out a small glass bottle. Reiner raises an eyebrow.

“Deal much, Armin?” he jokes.

Armin gives him the best glare he can muster, but he’s still half-asleep. “They’re sleeping pills,” he says. He tosses the bottle to Bertholdt, who catches it clumsily. “Just take one or two, and you’ll sleep like a baby.”

He pauses. “Well, hopefully not a baby, because that means you’d be waking up every hour and screaming. Hopefully you’ll sleep like a baby.”

He turns and trudges out of the bathroom, rubbing at his tired eyes. They watch him go, and as the door swings shut behind him, Reiner calls, “Thanks for the pills, Arlert?”

“Do you get the feeling that he’s up to a lot of weird shirt?” Bertholdt mutters.

Reiner shrugs. “Everyone here is up to some weird shit, aren’t they?”

Bertholdt sighs, looking down at the bottle. “I guess,” he mutters. He opens the bottle, shakes two pills out into his palm, and crosses to the sink to swallow them.

“You’ll sleep better for it,” Reiner says.

Bertholdt sighs again. He leans back against the sink, staring at the ground, and says, “I hope.”

He looks at the bottle again. “Maybe I should take more than two.”

“I’m not gonna let you overdose on barbiturates. Go back to bed.”

It doesn’t take long for Bertholdt to shuffle back to the dormitory, murmuring quiet thanks to Reiner and wiping the sweat from his brow as he goes. When the door closes behind him, Reiner finds himself suddenly alone. His every breath seems to echo through the empty space, the only sound besides the continuous dripping water. He means to leave immediately: to follow Bertholdt and go back to bed. But as he picks up his weight and starts towards the door, he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the opposite wall. Slowly, he crosses to the mirror, his slippers scuffling across the tile. He bends, setting his hands on either side of the sink, and stares at his gaunt reflection. Underneath the flickering bathroom light, his skin glows an eerie yellow.

There, in the middle of the night, he remembers.

How had he forgotten? Bertholdt certainly had not, because it was giving him nightmares. But he had let it slip his mind, as much as he could with something like that.

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

He goes back to bed.

\--

The chapel bells ring their rousing seven strokes, pulling Reiner from whatever slumber he had in the late hours of the night. He stirs, groggy, even more than he was when he woke up in the middle of the night. But someone has already pulled back the curtains, and sunlight streams in from beyond the forest, casting bright streaks across the room. He blinks at the scene around him: other boys are cursing at the morning bells or grabbing their towels for the showers. Most of them have already gone, and the room is half-empty. Sitting up and yawning, he glances across at Jean, who sits listlessly on his bed.

“Have you seen Bert?” he manages to ask through a yawn.

Jean glances over his shoulder at him. His eyes are distracted, his face blank like he didn’t heart what Reiner just said to him. In his waking haze, Reiner merely rubs his eyes as he waits for a response. And then, after he blinks a few more times, the sunlight hitting his face, he sees the empty bed on Jean’s other side.

“Never mind,” he mutters, and he slips out of bed to head to the showers.

Breakfast continues much as supper did last night. The table is awash with gossip and rumors, but today, the students are much more reserved in their tale telling. It’s the second day with no sign of Marco, and the worst remains unspoken between them. Reiner stays quiet throughout the murmuring chatter, listening to what the others have to say. Bertholdt ignores the conversation entirely. He channels his energy into eating instead, and Reiner watches him from the corner of his eyes as he eats fully for the first time in two days. When the dishes are cleared, the reluctant walk to math class begins.

“I’m glad for the distraction,” Ymir says offhandedly as the junior class meanders together through the halls to their classroom. “I’ve heard enough about all of this.”

The others seem reluctant to admit it, but Historia hums in agreement. “Me too,” she says quietly. “I’d like to think about something else, even if it’s just for an hour. Even if it’s just algebra.”

But shortly after they’ve filed into the classroom, dropping their books onto their desks, the door opens abruptly, and Miss Brzenska walks in. Her shoes click across the wooden floor as she crosses, hurriedly, to stand before her desk and address the students.

“Good morning, class,” she says, and she continues before they can mutter their good mornings in response. “We have a bit of an interruption in our schedule today. Two detectives from the state will be arriving at the school shortly, and they will be staying through the end of their investigation. They will be conducting interviews with all the students and faculty, to provide them with the necessary information to begin their case. Since you are Mr. Bodt’s classmates, they have requested to begin the interviews with your class.”

She pauses as she glances across their flat faces, her stern expression faltering a bit. “You are to return to your dormitories for now and wait there until the detectives arrive. When they are ready for you, someone will be sent to escort you down.”

Reiner glances to his left: the empty seat that once belonged to Mr. Bodt. Past the desk, he sees Armin and Mikasa glance at each other with furrowed brows. Somewhere in the back of the classroom, someone complains that exams are in only a few weeks- can they afford to miss class like this? But the rest of the students wear the same, flat expressions as they gather their books and push in their chairs. It’s bad, worse than they thought, if the police are really here. What could have possibly happened to Marco? What are the detectives going to find?

“I can’t believe this is really happening,” Sasha sighs as the students file back out of the classroom. She clutches her books to her chest. “I mean, police and everything!”

“You might be next, junior prefect,” Connie taunts, poking her, but she retaliates hard, whacking him with a book. “Ow! It was just a joke!”

“Well, it wasn’t funny!”

At the top of the main staircase, the girls split off to head into the north wing; the boys head deep into the south wing and pour into their octagonal dormitory. The rooms rings eerily silent as they wait. Some of the boys pull out unfinished homework and whisper over history textbooks together, while others lie on their beds in silence, sharing nervous glances. Reiner sits on the edge of his bed, but his hands are restless. He glances across at Bertholdt, who has laid back and propped his Bible up over his face, although his eyes hardly move.

“Are you actually reading?” Reiner asks.

Bertholdt’s expression remains flat as he answers. “No,” he says. “But it looks like I am.”

“I don’t know if that counts, buddy.”

Across the room, someone gasps. Reiner glances up to see Franz and Thomas leaning against the windowsill, their noses nearly pressed to the glass. Franz glances over his shoulder and waves the rest of the boys over.

“They’re here!” he calls.

Murmuring excitedly, the boys rush across the room to cram themselves against the window and watch as a single black car pulls up to the school across the gravel driveway. It stops before the front steps and lingers there for a moment before anything happens. After an unnervingly long pause- “what the hell are they waiting for,” Jean mutters- the doors open simultaneously, and the students get their first look at the detectives. From the passenger’s side comes exactly what they imagined: tall, stern, with his blond hair swept back and his trench coat nearly skimming the ground. He slams the door behind himself, glances up at the school, and says something indecipherable. A breeze blows across the lot, and the boys furrow their brows at his flapping right sleeve.

“He’s got one arm,” Connie says.

Reiner leans so close to the window his forehead presses againt the glass. “Which war?” he calls. “Come on, boys, place your bets.”

“Germany,” Eren says immediately. “He looks like an officer, right?”

“He certainly commands attention,” Armin mutters.

“No, I’m calling Korea,” Connie says, leaning up against the window. “More soldiers lost limbs in Korea.”

“That’s not true!”

“Is too.”

“But he can’t have fought in Korea and lost an arm _and_ be a detective!”

“Well, how do you know it was Germany and the not the Philippines or something?”

“Because-”

“Alright, shut up,” Jean growls. “One of you boy scouts can just ask him.”

“You don’t ask someone what war they lost their arm in-”

“Is that the other detective?” Armin asks, craning his neck for a better look.

It is. From the driver’s side comes exactly what they did not imagine: short, grimacing, with wisps of black hair falling into his face. He crosses around to the front of the car, pulling a notepad from his pocket, and follows the other detective up the school steps, onto the front porch, and out of the boys’ sight.

The silence resumes. The moment of excitement is over and the boys return to their beds, picking up their books and pencils. Bertholdt lies back down and throws his Bible over his face, its page fluttering as they settle down across his cheeks. Reiner stares at him for a moment- does he think absorbing the Bible will save his soul?- before he goes and joins Eren for an impromptu game of checkers. Time passes in the restless quiet, and although Reiner knows it can’t have been more than an hour since the detectives arrived, it feels like they’ve been waiting forever.

Then, without warning, the dormitory door swings open. The boys jump, some of them cursing loudly at the surprise, and glance around to the door. There in the doorway stands one of the detectives.

“We got the shrimp,” someone hisses, and few stifled laughs follow.

But if the detective hears, he shows no sign. He merely stands in the doorway, scowling, seemingly entirely unsatisfied at what he sees as he glances around the room. The boys scramble to stand to attention at their bunks, as they’ve been taught, but the detective isn’t watching them at all. He surveys the room, glances up and down and across. The boys wait, and wait, and wait, until finally the detective gives a huff and glances up at them.

“I’m glad you weren’t doing anything weird in here,” he says. It seems like an apology for not knocking should follow, but he says nothing else on the matter. He steps inside the room, letting the door creak shut behind him as he pulls a pen from his front pocket and holds it over his notepad: a threat?

“I’m a detective from the state,” he says simply. “Levi.”

 _Levi_ , Reiner thinks, as the detective steps further into the room, the floorboards creaking under his slow decisive steps. No last name and no title. He glances over his shoulder at Bertholdt, who now seems more perturbed than worried. Reiner can’t blame him. This investigation is getting off to a weird start.

Levi circles the room, round and round the center beam, his stern gaze casting over everything in view. He walks slowly. His notes are clenched in one hand, his pen twirling in the other, and as his shoes move across the dark, wooden floors, he seems to hit every squeaky floorboard, every spot that they boys have learned to avoid. Not that he would know any better, but with every squeak, they can’t help but cringe. Once, and then twice: two rounds he makes through the room, narrowing his eyes as he goes. Reiner glances at Bertholdt again, to make a joke or to give him a look or something: to say, “Can you believe this guy?” But Bertholdt’s eyes flicker away.

Finally, Levi stops near the door and glances back at the boys. “This room is incredibly clean for a bunch of kids,” he says.

No one responds. Reiner catches a nervous glance from Connie, a roll of the eyes from Jean, and a confused stare from Eren. No one seems sure whether to laugh or answer or say nothing at all. It can hardly be more than a few seconds before Armin finally takes one for the team and says something, but the air seems so incredibly tight in the short moment that they hardly dare to breathe. The detective looks like he might hit anyone who makes a wrong move.

“We just cleaned, sir,” Armin squeaks. Everyone’s gazes shift toward him as he clears his throat and tries again. “Uh, sorry. Sunday was cleaning day, sir.”

“That certainly explains it.” Levi twists his pen in his hands as if to write something down, but he merely continues to fidget with it. “Isn’t Sunday the day of rest?”

Armin glances around at the other boys for help, but they all stare blankly back at him. He’s volunteered his voice. Now he’s got to commit. “Uh,” he starts. “Yes, sir.”

“This is a Baptist school,” Levi says. He twists his pen back again and stuffs it back in his pocket. “You don’t rest on Sundays?”

“It’s also a reform school,” Armin stutters. “We have morning class on Saturday, and then we get the afternoon off. So Sunday is our cleaning day, after chapel. That’s when all the laundry gets done, and we’re responsible for sweeping the floors and shaking out the rugs and-”

“I get the picture.” Levi glances around the room and his gaze lands on Eren . “You. This dormitory is just third years, yeah?”

“Yes, sir,” Eren exclaims.

“You do everything with the students in your year, classes and all that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many boys in this year?”

“Twelve, sir,” Eren says. “I can name them all, if you want. Me, Armin, I mean, Arlert, Bodt, well, you already know about Marco, uh, Braun, Hoover, uh-”

Levi waves him off. “Don’t hurt yourself, kid. I’ll get a roster from the dean.”

He starts for the door, tucking his notes into his breast pocket. “You’ll meet downstairs in the front hall in five minutes,” he says. “From there, we’ll let you know how interviews are going to work.”

With that, he leaves.

“Cheerful guy,” Jean mutters from the back of the room.

\--

On any other day, they might take their time meandering down the front hall- five minutes is just a suggestion, isn’t it?- but there is an edge in all of their minds today, and it’s making them all anxious. They follow after Levi almost immediately, whispering in pairs as they trace their steps back down to the front hall. Bertholdt lingers in the back, and Reiner hangs back to clap him on the shoulder.

“It’s gonna be fine,” he says assuredly.

Bertholdt winces at his voice. “Not so loud,” he murmurs, but Reiner shrugs.

“Everyone’s worried,” he says. “But it’s gonna be fine, I’m sure.”

They pour down the steps of the front hall and immediately spy the girls, who stand to attention in a line across the room, glancing around at each other. Curious, the students mingle together, exchanging whispers and murmurs. Bertholdt makes a beeline for the far end of the line, away from the crowd, and Reiner follows him. But just as he’s opening his mouth to reassure Bertholdt again that everything will be fine, someone brushes past him and takes her place in line between them.

After a pregnant pause, Annie glances up at him.

“What?” she says.

On her other side, Bertholdt stands, bewildered. Reiner glances across at him, then back down to Annie. “Nothing,” he says. “Just, you know, we were standing next to each other, but whatever.”

“It’s just a line,” Annie says, picking at her nails beds. “What do you think of this whole thing? It’s something, right?”

Reiner can feel Bertholdt’s gaze on him, but he just shrugs. “It sure is something.”

At the front of the hall stands a petite policewoman, her hands clasped in front of her as she gazes out at the students, surveying the line. Their murmurs falter as they wait for her to say something. When all their gazes fall on her, she seems to perk up, suddenly attentive. But as soon as she opens her mouth to say something, the main office door opens and the two detectives step out, following closely behind the dean. The taller of the two detectives walks slowly, his steps decisive. He’s an imposing figure, certainly, and one of defined authority. His expression isn’t exactly blank, but he isn’t quite smiling either. Reiner can’t place it, whatever it is. The dean crosses to stand before the line of students and clears her throat.

“Good morning, students,” she says. “As you have been informed, the state police are beginning their investigation here today. You will give them your utmost attention and cooperation. Detective Smith?”

“Thank you,” the taller detective says, nodding to her, and she steps back. He glances out across the students, his one arm folded behind his back.

“My name is Erwin Smith,” he says. “I am a detective with the state police, and I will be leading this investigation at Trost. Some of you have already met my partner, Levi.” He glances around to Levi, who lingers at the back of the room, twisting his pen between his hands.

He gestures behind him to the policewoman who’s hastily tucking her hair under her cap. “This is Officer Ral,” he says, and she gives the students a small smile. “She will be assisting with this investigation as well, as part of her probationary period.

“Throughout the day, we’ll be conducting interviews,” he continues. “These interview are part of our procedure when investigating a missing person. I will be interviewing the faculty and staff, and Levi will begin the student interviews with your class, as you are Marco’s classmates.”

The use of his first name strikes the students. Faces black, they stare up at Detective Smith, who merely nods to them, hands something to Levi, and heads off with the dean into the front office again. Levi adjusts the papers in his hands, flipping them over and upside down until they seem to satisfy him. He grips his pen, writing hand at the ready, and glances up at the sea of grimacing faces before him.

“We’ll be doing interviews by last name,” he says, stepping forward to the students. “It’s easier that way.”

He starts towards the end of the line, where Reiner and Bertholdt stand, Annie caught awkwardly between them.

“Your classes will continue as scheduled for the rest of the day,” Levi says as he walks, glancing down at his notes. “When we’re ready for your interview, we’ll send Officer Ral to collect you from class and escort you to the session. But for now, I just need to know your names and faces and all that.”

He stops at the end of the line, his shoes squeaking against the floor. Glancing up, he spies Bertholdt.

“Alright, champion,” Levi says, tapping his pen against his notepad. “You’re up to bat. What’s your name?”

Bertholdt swallows. “Hoover, Bertholdt, sir.”

“Hoover…” Levi glances down at his notes. “Any relation to Herbert?”

“…ah! No, sir!”

Levi throws him a bemused look. “It was a joke, Hoover. You can calm down.”

Bertholdt blinks. “Oh, right.”

Levi crosses something off on his notes, but he says nothing else to Bertholdt. He steps down the line and looks at Annie. She stares back, her face blank.

“Name?” he asks.

“D’Arcy, sir.”

He looks down at his roster. “Annie, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Any relation to D’Arcy Distilleries?” he asks, half-joking as he glances back to Bertholdt, but Annie nods.

“It’s the family business, sir,” is all she says.

“Hm.” Levi’s gaze lingers on her for a moment, and then he makes a mark on his notes before crossing to stand in front of Reiner.

“Name?”

“Braun, sir. Reiner Braun.”

“That’s a very patriotic name,” Levi says, hardly glancing up. Reiner’s mouth tightens, and he itches to say something stupid: “Erwin _Schmidt_ isn’t any better, sir.” But he keeps his mouth shut.

“You’ve got quite the record, Braun.” Levi looks up at him. “Anything to say about that?”

“Only that I regret every single one of those citations, sir.”

Down the line, he hears Connie crack a giggle. Levi glances up at the noise, but he doesn’t seem particularly bothered by it. “Hm,” he says. “I’m sure you do.”

He moves on to the next few people in line. Reiner hears him ask Jean, Thomas, Ymir, and a few others, but he isn’t really listening. He doesn’t look back at Annie, but he can feel her gaze on him as he watches the procedure down the line. There’s something strange about the air between them right now, and he’s not sure he wants to confront it in this hall full of people. He waits, and tunes back into the conversation happening down the line.

“Name?” Levi is asking.

“Kefka, Franz, sir.”

Levi glances up at him. He stares for a moment, then asks, “Are you trying to be funny?”

Franz blinks, taken aback. “What? No, sir!”

“Your parents named you Franz Kefka?”

“Y-yes, sir.”

“Did they expect to give birth to a beetle?”

“Uh…”

Levi shakes his head. “Never mind,” he grumbles, crossing something off his roster. He crosses to stand in front of Mina next. Without glancing up, he asks, “Name?”

“Carolina, Mina, sir. You don’t look like you’d be a Kafka fan.”

“What does a Kafka fan look like, Carolina?”

“Ah, well…”

Levi scratches a few notes down and moves further down the line, leaving Mina fumbling with her words. Eren swells up as he approaches.

“I see you got that roster,” Eren says immediately. Levi stops, glances up from his notes, and stares at him. “Uh… I mean, sir.”

“What’s your deal?” Levi asks, flipping another page in his notes.

“Uh, well…”

“What’s your name, kid?”

“Yeager, Eren, sir,” he exclaims. “I really admire the police, and one day I’d like to-”

“Has anyone ever told you that you need to calm down, Yeager?”

“I mean, not in those exact words…”

“Okay, let me help you out. You need to calm down.”

“Well, uh- thank you? Sir. I mean-”

“Shut up, Yeager.”

“…okay.”

Levi takes another step, marking Eren’s name off his roster. “Who’s next?”

“Me, sir,” Armin says, raising a hand.

“Name?”

“Arlert, Armin.”

“Arlert…” Levi glances back at his notes. “Hm. I’m surprised they let you work in the office.”

Armin furrows his brow. “Uh, excuse me?”

“Well, with a record like yours-”

“A record like mine?” Armin squawks.

Levi glances up. “Does that surprise you? Most delinquents can at least admit their shortcomings.”

“Hey, Armin’s not a delinquent!”

“I thought I told you to can it, kid.”

Eren sulks. “Yes, sir.”

Armin timidly opens his mouth again. “I’m sorry, sir, but what exactly is on my record?”

“You really don’t know?” Levi flips through a few pages of his notes, raising his eyebrows. “Hm. You’ve broken the dress code regulation three times.”

“What?!”

“For excessively long hair.”

Armin stutters. “Well, that’s-”

“And,” Levi continues, “you have six books overdue at the school library.” He flips his folder shut and stares at Armin. “You’re practically criminal, Arlert. What’s that all about?”

Armin purses his lips. “I haven’t finished taking notes,” he mutters. “They’re for a classics project.”

“And the hair?”

He actually turns pink. “That’s an old-fashioned rule,” he says, his voice low.

“Old-fashioned,” Levi repeats.

“He’s a pacifist,” Mikasa suddenly interjects, and the entire line cranes their necks to stare at her. “He wears his hair long in protest.”

Levi raises a single eyebrow, turning his gaze to her. “Is that so?” he asks. “And you are…?”

“Ackerman, Mikasa.”

“Ackerman?” Levi glances down at his roster. “I see you’re from Virginia.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What part?”

Mikasa narrows her eyes at that, but she answers simply. “The metropolitan area,” she says. “I grew up near Annandale.”

“Hm,” Levi says, but nothing more.

“He’s from Baltimore,” a voice says, and suddenly Detective Smith is there again, emerging from the office as a looming, smiling presence who strolls down the line towards them. “That’s why he’as king.”

“That’s not why I’m asking,” Levi grumbles.

“A real live Yank,” Connie exclaims from the end of the line, and a wave of giggles flitters through the students. “How’d you end up down here in the bayou?”

“How do people normally end up down here?” Levi asking, glancing down at his roster. “Mr. Springer, I presume?”

Next to Connie, Sasha shrugs. “Usually bootlegging,” she says. “Prohibition did a lot of good for a lot of people.”

“Are you admitting you’re from a family of criminals?” Levi asks. “Braus, is it?”

Sasha opens her mouth, blushes, then closes it.

“He’s kidding,” Detective Smith says.

After a long silence, Levi clears his throat. “I’m kidding,” he says. “None of you are suspects in this case. Mostly because we don’t know what the hell this case is about yet.”

“He’s right,” Detective Smith says, suddenly serious again. He addresses the students directly, but the dean lingers in the office door, hanging onto his every word with a sour look on her face. “Right now, we’re treating this case as a missing child investigation, but your interviews will provide us will valuable information that may be able to provide us with a clear understanding of this situation by the end of the day.”

With a nod, he turns away again to follow the dean down the hall past the stairs, presumably to begin the faculty interviews. Levi folds his notes up, glancing up and down the line.

“Right,” he says. “I’ve got what I need for now. We’ll start with you, Ackerman. Arlert, you’re on standby. The rest of you can head to class.”

“Is it just me,” Eren mutters as they shuffle off to English class, “or are they not taking this very seriously?”

He’s in the back of the pack with Armin; Reiner and Bertholdt are just behind them, glancing over their shoulders at Annie, who darts away and disappears into the middle of the group.

“What do you mean?” Reiner asks. Eren looks over his shoulder at him.

“Marco’s been gone for nearly two days,” Eren hisses. “And they’re not expecting to have a clear understanding of the case until tonight? I mean, they couldn’t even be bothered to get here until today.”

“We do live in the middle of nowhere,” Armin points out. “And there probably wasn’t much that could have been done yesterday anyways. The teachers spent half the night searching the school with someone from the local sheriff’s office, but they didn’t find anything. I imagine the police will send out a search party, but right now interviewing us is probably the most useful thing they can do.”

Still, Eren shakes his head as they file into the classroom. “I could’ve solved this case by now.”

\--

It isn’t long before Officer Ral appears at the classroom door to trade Mikasa for Armin, and the students have just settled into history class when she appears again, squinting down at her roster.

“Reiner Braun?” she calls. “You’re up next.”

“So,” he says when they start down the hall together. “How’d you get to be a police officer?”

Her shoes click against the stone floor, echoing down the hall, and she shrugs when she answers. “Oh, I got back from Germany not that long ago and I was looking for a job. I knew Levi, and he recommended me to the department.”

She doesn’t say how she knows Levi, but the implications of “got back from Germany” are blatant.

“I’m still on probation,” she says as they round the corner into the main hall. “That’s why I was dragged along on this case. Someone has to do the paperwork, and, well, I’m still the new face on the block.”

Officer Ral starts for an office door on the opposite side, next to the main office, and she glances over her shoulder at him. “Don’t be nervous,” she says as they near the door. “The interview is just part of procedure, to help us get all the information we need.”

She flashes him a smile as she opens the door. “Nothing to worry about.”

It’s just an empty office, used on and off by faculty for the last few years, but it’s been rearranged in such a way that Reiner feels he’s really stepped into a police interview room. The wood-paneled walls are characteristic of Trost, but other than that, the room is mostly bare. A desk has been pushed into the center of the room, with single chairs on either side of it. The hanging lamp overhead glows dimly, casting yellow light down over the center of the room, where Levi sits on the far side of the desk, waiting.

“Sit down, Mr. Braun,” Levi says.

He gestures at the other seat, but he doesn’t bother to look up. Papers are strewn across the table, and he’s immersed in the middle of them, intently flipping through a file. His notepad sits to the side, spread open with black ink scrawled across its pages. Reiner steps inside the room carefully, the door falling shut behind him, and takes a seat.

“This is just a standard interview,” Levi says. He flips a few more pages. “We’re trying to establish a timeline and determine where we should begin our search.”

He looks up at Reiner. “I need to ask you a few routine questions, and then you can go back to class.”

Reiner clasps his hands together over the table and smiles. “Sure thing, detective.”

“Swell.” His voice is flat. Reiner gets the feeling this man couldn’t tell a good joke if it knocked him flat. “Then let’s get this over with.”

There’s nothing remarkable about him. He’s just another student. Just a kid who happens to be in the same class as a guy who- disappeared. He’s no one, and he doesn’t know anything.

“You’ve been at Trost all three years?” Levi asks, picking up his notepad.

“Yes, sir.”

“And how well do you know Marco Bodt?”

Reiner blinks. “Oh, well… I mean, we’ve been classmates for three years.”

Levi glances up. “You wouldn’t say you’re friends?”

Reiner shrugs. “Not really. We have different circles.”

“Who’s in your circle?”

“Well…” He trails off. Damn. He doesn’t have any friends. “Really just Bertholdt Hoover, I guess.”

When Levi raises an eyebrow, Reiner adds, “I mean, and Connie and Sasha, and Eren and Armin too, I guess…”

“Right.” He pauses to scrawl something down in his notes. “Tell me what you did on Sunday.”

Reiner drums his fingers on the table. “Well, I woke up and we have breakfast, and then we went to chapel, as usual. After chapel we had Bible study, which happens every couple of weeks. And then… after Bible study, we had lunch and after that we had an afternoon break for homework, so I went to the common room with Bertholdt and Eren and Armin, and we caught up on reading for English class. And then after break we do all the cleaning and stuff. I was helping in the laundry, and that took all afternoon.”

Levi writes something in his notes. “What about Sunday night?”

So they’ve narrowed down the time already.

Reiner shrugs, watching the detective scribble in his notes. “We had dinner and then we went to study hall. We were there until nine, and then we all went and got ready for bed and stuff. We have quiet hours right before bed, so I was reading. And then lights out was at 10:30, as usual.”

“Do you remember seeing Marco at all on Sunday?”

He remembers that very well.

“I saw him at chapel,” Reiner says. He clasps his hands together again, his clammy fingers tightening over each other. “He and Jean always sat in front of us. And he’s always pretty active at Bible study, although I don’t really remember anything he said that day. I guess I probably saw him during cleaning and study hall too, but, uh, we weren’t- aren’t really close.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Levi asks. “Do you remember clearly seeing him on Sunday night?”

Reiner fidgets. “I know I saw him at dinner. He was sitting at the other end of the table with Jean and Armin, but, like I said, I’m not really sure if I saw him at study hall or not.”

“So after dinner, you didn’t see him again that night?”

Yes. “No.”

“He was supposed to check in at the dormitory before staring his rounds as prefect,” Levi says. He thrusts one hand under a pile of papers and digs around for a moment before producing what he’s looking for. He holds it close, reading down the page. “He would have checked in during quiet hours, like he did every time he was on duty. You don’t remember seeing him come in?”

Levi glances up at him finally. Reiner meets his gaze and just shrugs. “He might have come in,” he says. “But I don’t remember seeing him. I was reading.”

“Hm.” Levi drops the paper and flips a page in his notes. “What about Monday morning? Did you notice anything unusual?”

Wet shoes, wet pants, wet hands-

“No,” Reiner says. “I don’t think anyone even realized Marco was gone until Miss Brzenska asked us where he was.”

Levi pauses to scratch down a few more notes, then mutters, “That about sums this up.”

Reiner starts, ready to leave this tiny room and that withering glare, but the detective does not dismiss him yet. He merely continues to scratch in his notes as Reiner waits, staring at him. Finally, Levi flips his notepad shut and glances up at Reiner.

“Tell me, Mr. Braun,” he says. “How does a student get to be a prefect?”

Reiner furrows his brow slightly. “They’re picked by the dean at the start of junior year.”

Levi sits back in his chair, crossing his arms. “No, I mean, what kind of qualifications do they have? What makes them prefect material?”

The detective’s stare bores into him, and Reiner hesitates for a moment before answering. “I don’t really know,” he starts. “Good behavior, I guess. Marco and Sasha are both good students, but they also don’t have the kind of disciplinary record that everyone else does. I’m sure y’all have figured out that Trost is kind of a special school.”

He swears Levi smirks. “I thought everyone had figured that out.”

Reiner refrains from grimacing. “Then I guess I’d say that the students chosen to be prefects are the ones who have changed the most since coming to Trost, or the ones who have _improved_ the most, as the dean would say.”

“Interesting.” Levi purses his lips. “So you wouldn’t consider yourself prefect material, Braun?”

Is the detective asking if he considers himself delinquent material instead. “No, sir, I guess not.”

Levi stares at him for a moment. It’s just a split second before he reaches for his notes and dismisses Reiner, and his face remains mostly the same scowl he’s worn since he walked into this place. But there’s a minute shift in his eyes. Something in there changes as he stares at Reiner, in that small moment, and just before he looks away, Reiner wonders if he should just confess and-

“Alright,” the detective says, reaching for his notes. “You’re dismissed. Officer Ral will escort you back to class.”

\--

The chapel bell rings as soon as he gets back to class, and the students are dismissed for lunch. He finds Bertholdt in the crowd, scanning for a head that sticks above the rest. With a few elbow pushes and some shoulder nudging, he slips through the wave of students and comes up next to Bertholdt, startling him.

“Oh, geez,” he exclaims, jumping, and Reiner smiles.

“Sorry. I thought you saw me there.”

“No, I didn’t,” Bertholdt says miserably. As the students gather in line for lunch, he glances sideways at Reiner. “How was the interview?”

“Fine,” Reiner says, shrugging. He glances ahead to try and catch a glimpse of whatever mystery is for lunch today, but instead he’s caught by Bertholdt’s intense gaze.

“It was fine,” he insists. “Really. I’ll tell you about it later.”

Lunch passes in an uncomfortable silence, the entire junior class sour and solemn, and when the afternoon free period commences with another ring of the chapel bell, Reiner and Bertholdt sequester themselves in an empty classroom, locking the door to keep out prying eyes and ears. Reiner leans against the windowsill, streaks of sunlight casting a glow over his shoulders, and he shrugs when Bertholdt gives him a look.

“It really was fine,” he says. “I don’t think the detective likes me very much, but he bought my story no problem.”

Bertholdt collapses into a desk, propping his feet up on the seat of another desk. “But what kind of questions did he ask?” he insists. “Did he ask anything that caught you off-guard?”

Reiner furrows his brow. “What? No, it was pretty straightforward. He just asked me about what I did on Sunday, if I remember seeing Marco at all, and stuff like that. What’s the big deal?”

“This is a big deal,” Bertholdt says, leaning his forehead against his hand. “All of this is a big deal. I can’t believe you’re not as nervous as I am.”

“Like I said, it was totally straightforward,” Reiner says, glancing down at his nails. Somehow they’re still dirty. How many days has it been? “You heard what they said earlier, Bert. They don’t suspect any of us. They’re just trying to establish some kind of timeline.”

Bertholdt stares off for a moment, distant, then blinks and sighs. “I know,” he says quietly. “But don’t you think that’s just because they haven’t found anything yet? Once they find some evidence-”

“What evidence?”

“I mean, Reiner, once they find _him_ -”

Reiner drops his hand and looks up at Bertholdt. “Bert,” he says. “They’re not going to find him.”

Bertholdt says nothing. He watches Reiner for another moment, then glances away. Reiner picks at his nails for another minute, eyes narrowed, before he says, “They probably think he ran away or something.”

“Why would someone like Marco just run away?”

“I don’t know, Bert, but it happens all the time! Kids run away. He might have been a prefect, but he was a fuck-up like the rest of us, remember?”

Reiner takes in a deep breath, staring at the dirt still under his nails. He drops his hand again and clenches his fingers against the edge of the windowsill. “Look, your interview is going to be fine,” he says. “Just put- _this_ out of your mind and remember your story. Right?”

Bertholdt sighs. “Right.”

He taps his fingers against the desk absently. “My interview is probably soon,” he says. “I should go, so they know where to find me.”

A cloud passes outside; the sunlight fades to dull, pale strokes through the window, and the room darkens, quiets.

“Have you been back there?” Bertholdt asks suddenly.

From the windowsill, Reiner glances up. “To the room?”

Bertholdt gives a weak nod, and Reiner shakes his head. “I haven’t had time. Actually, I haven’t really thought about it.”

“I don’t think we should,” Bertholdt says.

Reiner stares at him. “What?”

“I don’t think we should go back to the room,” Bertholdt says. He taps his fingers against the desk in an erratic rhythm. “I think it’s best left abandoned.”

“It’s our room,” Reiner says, his brow furrowed, and Bertholdt shakes his head.

“We’ll find a new room,” he says simply. “There are plenty of places like that in the school. We’ll find another.”

“But-”

“Reiner,” Bertholdt pleads.

Reiner looks at him: his tired eyes, his dark gaze, the thin line his lips make when he’s had enough. He can’t blame him.

“Alright,” Reiner says quietly, then adds, “You’d better go for your interview.”

\--

Supper that night is a simmering stew and the slimiest pile of mustard greens. Bertholdt eats with a newfound ferocity, his eyes bright again. He’s in good spirits after his interview.

“I don’t know what I was so worried about,” he says quietly across the table to Reiner. He loads another pile of greens onto his fork. “It was fine. It was all fine. It was just like you said.”

Reiner watches him from across the table. He’s hungry too, but his fork isn’t nearly as fast as Bertholdt’s. His head spins, like he can’t quite catch up with himself. His mouth is dry, and he finds his gaze flicking around the room, waiting to catch someone watching him. Someone’s eyes are on him, like they can’t less him pass a second without any kind of peace. But Bertholdt’s good mood rubs off on him. He eats, listening to Bertholdt talk, and soon Sasha and Connie join their conversation, all of them chatting together. By the time dinner is over, Reiner has nearly forgotten.

The good mood sticks through the night. After an evening of geography homework and baseball on the radio, they wake refreshed. Yesterday’s turn of events leaves them more reassured than anything else. Something unspoken still lingers between them, ticking at the back of their minds when the senior prefect does a headcount of their class before breakfast. But for the first time in days, they breathe easily. They follow the breakfast line, mingling among the students, before grabbing plates and heading for their usual spot at the table.

They’ve hardly sat down before Annie appears at Bertholdt’s shoulder, a bowl of oatmeal in one hand. Loose strands of blonde hair frame her face, and her uniform tie is slack, but she doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she sits down promptly in Connie’s usual spot.

Reiner stares at her for a few solid seconds. She eats her oatmeal, face downturned. He glances across at Bertholdt, who stares back, seemingly paralyzed by the presence of the small girl beside him. Reiner glances back at her as she continues to quietly spoon oatmeal into her mouth, but she seems entirely unaware of the silence surrounding her.

“Hey, Annie,” Reiner finally says.

She nods, but she doesn’t look up. “Hey.”

Reiner casually pushes eggs around his plate. “You hungry?”

She nods. “Mmhmm.”

He swears he can hear Bertholdt holding in his breath, and he glances across the table to give him a wary glance: what the fuck is wrong with you, she’s a tiny girl. Bertholdt just stares back, his eyes wide. Reiner looks back to Annie.

“You usually sit down at the other end,” he says, “with Eren and Armin.”

“Yeah,” is all she says.

He raises an eyebrow. “Has Mikasa finally had enough of you?”

She shakes her head. “No,” she says. “I had something I wanted to talk to you two about.”

Bertholdt jerks his head sideways, staring down at Annie. Reiner glances at him for a moment, but his gaze is inevitably drawn back to Annie, staring at her to try and figure out what the hell she wants.

“Alright, your have our attention,” he says. “What is it?”

Annie looks up, finally. She stares straight at Reiner, her cool gaze meeting his eyes. Her fingers linger on her spoon, but her hand stills as she talks, her voice smooth and low.

“I was in the gardens the other day,” she says, “and I overheard an interesting conversation between you two.”

Her lips twitch. Reiner’s breath catches in his throat.

“Something you probably wouldn’t want those detectives to know about,” she says. “Something about where you two were on Sunday night?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner and Bertholdt ponder an unusual proposition from Annie.

\--

“Bottom of the River” by Delta Rae 

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/Hwb2/)

“Let that fever make the water rise”

\--

Breakfast continues around them. Shoes scuffle along the wooden floor as students rush to claim their favorite seats. Their chatter swells to fill the room; forks clink against plates and orange juice is sucked down from glasses. Soft rumors are passed from one table to the next as rays of the morning’s sunlight gleam in through the tall windows It is the beginning of another day: another dawn without any answers. On the far side of the room, first year students gather in their packs, huddled together to whisper. Near the front of the dining hall, the senior students are stretched out at their long table. They exchange a hushed conversation as they eat, casting their gazes out across the rest of the lively room.

That liveliness is in stark contrast in the tense silence that reigns at the far end of the third years’ table. Annie, her face flat, her posture nonchalant, sips steadily from a glass of milk, her gaze elsewhere, as Reiner and Bertholdt watch her, their breath caught in their throats.

To Bertholdt’s credit, he manages not to faint.

Reiner nearly kicks him under the table. Not to keep him from fainting, really, but more to revive him from the sudden stupor he seems to have slipped into: his eyes wide, his pale fingers clenched on his fork. But he doesn’t have to. As painful as that silent moment is, watching Annie drain her glass, it does not last for long. Chatting incessantly to each other, Connie and Sasha suddenly plop down on either side of Reiner and Annie, their plates clunking against the table. Bertholdt jumps at the noise, startled out of his reverie. Connie immediately sets upon his food, but Sasha hesitates for a moment, lifting her glass cautiously to her lips as she side-eyes Annie.

“Are you sitting with us today?” she asks, her glass hovering before her mouth.

Annie doesn’t bother to look at her. She shrugs and sets her empty cup down. When she glances up at Reiner, he immediately tenses. His eyes shift across to Connie and Sasha.

“Can you give us a minute?” he asks. “We’re… having a private conversation.”

“Don’t mind us,” Connie exclaims through a mouthful of toast. He leans in, his elbows splayed across the table as he intently watches them. “We’re hardly listening.”

“Come on, y’all.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow as she sets her glass down. “Ooh, we got told off, _y’all_!”

“Please?”

“Alright, okay,” she says with a dramatic sigh. “We’ll leave _y’all_ to your private conversation, _y’all_.”

They pack up their plates and slink down to the other end of the table, Connie throwing one last “y’all” over his shoulder as they go. Reiner watches them leave, but he can feel Annie’s gaze lingering on him. When they’re finally out of sight, plopped at the opposite end of the table, Reiner turns back to Annie, his brow furrowed.

“Annie,” he says.

She stares back.

“I don’t know what you think you heard,” Reiner says. He speaks decisively. He chooses each word just before it steps out of his mouth. “But this is probably just a misunderstanding.”

All she does is look at him. Her eyes are cold: blue and frosted. In that blank look, he knows, with a realization that clenches in his gut, that this isn’t any misunderstanding.

“I know exactly what I’m talking about,” Annie says. She stirs her oatmeal, but her gaze flicks up to Reiner every so often. She tries not to simmer under her hard stare. “You two know something about Marco.”

Reiner’s jaw clenches.

“Are we going to talk about this now?” he mutters. He glances past Annie to the gap of empty seats between them and their classmates. The gap is slowly closing as students gather with their breakfast trays. He drums his fingers against the table. He can feel Bertholdt watching him from across the table. “I mean, do we have to do this now?”

Annie taps her spoon on the side of her bowl and a glob of oatmeal rolls off. “They’re not listening,” she says. “And if you think I’m going to go anywhere alone with you two-”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Reiner hisses. “Is that what you think of us?”

She raises an eyebrow. “The conversation I overheard wasn’t exactly endearing.”

Reiner’s fingers itch- for a pencil, for a cigarette, for anything but this right now- but he fights the urge to rattle his knuckles against the edge of the table and instead tucks his hands together, lacing his fingers through each other. He glances across at Bertholdt with a quick shift of his eyes. Bertholdt’s urgent gaze tells him everything: he’s desperate to end this, whatever it is, to give Annie what she wants as quickly as possible, to put her and everything else behind them. He’s waiting for Reiner to speak, but if keeping their secrets means giving Annie anything she wants, then he’ll do it. Reiner glances back to Annie. He’s not sure what use there is in prolonging the conversation- it’s not like they have any choice- but he’s not going to be so quick to agree to a deal with her. Really, what kind of person overhears a conversation like that and doesn’t immediately run to the police?

“What exactly did you hear?” he asks.

Annie hardly blinks. “Everything,” she says. “You two came stumbling into my private reading spot, and you didn’t notice me, so I just let you talk.”

“But we looked around,” Bertholdt says. His voice cracks. He pauses, clears his throat, and says, “We looked around and there wasn’t anybody there.”

“I was on the other side of those hedges,” she says. “Right behind you. “You didn’t bother to look there.”

Reiner furrows his brow. “What were you doing out in the gardens?”

“Just reading,” she said. “Is that really the most pressing question you have to ask me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Alright, what’s your game? What do you want from us?”

Annie sets her spoon down. Her bowl scratches against the table as she pushes it out of the way, tucking her hands into the sleeves of her cardigan. She leans in to speak. “I want a deal,” she says. “I won’t tell the police what I heard, and in exchange, I want something from you two.”

Reiner’s jaw twitches- what kind of _person_ \- but before he can say anything, Bertholdt loses it.

“What do you want?” he exclaims.

“Hold on,” Reiner says, throwing up a cautionary hand. “Not so fast.”

He looks back to Annie, who glances between them, her eyebrows slightly raised. “How do we know you’ll make good on that promise? Why wouldn’t you tell the police? It seems like the natural thing to do.”

“I thought you might just take me at face value,” Annie says. A strip of bangs falls over her eyes, but she doesn’t bother to shake it away. “After all, you don’t have much of a choice.”

“Well, you’ll forgive my caution,” Reiner scoffs, “because had any other person at this table overheard us, surely they wouldn’t be having this conversation with us.”

“No,” Annie says, “you’d be having a much more thrilling conversation with the detectives.

“But if you’re that curious,” she continues, “ thenlet’s just say that I don’t have a dog in this fight. Whatever happens here, or whatever happens to either of you- I don’t care. I need something, and I’m using this opportunity to get what I want.”

She brushes her bangs back, but they just fall over her eyes again. “There’s no use pretending like you’re going to turn me down. That wouldn’t end very well for you two.”

Reiner sets his jaw. “You’re blackmailing us.”

“If that’s what you want to call it.”

Bertholdt glances across at Reiner. “Let’s hear her out,” he says, his voice soft. Reiner looks at him. _Hear her out_ , he says, as if both of them- all three of them- don’t know that they have no choice in the matter, like they could walk away from all of this unscathed. But they know- she knows- that’s not the case. There are no good choices anymore; only a constant fight to make the lesser of two bad choices. He looks back at Annie, who narrows her eyes as she waits for a response. Finally, he gives in.

“Fine,” Reiner says. “What do you want from us?”

She scoops up her bowl in one hand, her glass in another, and she shakes her head as she stands, her dark skirt brushing against the edge of the table. “We’ll talk details later,” she says, and then she’s gone.

A beat of silence passes before Bertholdt mutters, “Shit.”

Reiner rubs his eyes. “I know. Shit.”

\--

The morning passes in a blur. Something is stirring in the air at Trost, and the entire school is on edge. At first the prospect of a police investigation was exciting: something real happening out here in the woods, at their little school. But it’s been three days and there’s still no sign of Marco. The police are no closer to finding him, and the anxiety trickling through Marco’s classmates has radiated throughout the school. First year students travel in packs, clumping together in the hallways between classes to avoid the unknown that they fear. The senior students are worse, in a way. They’re distanced from one another now, each of them filled with suspicion. They live every man for himself: in class, in sport, and now in fear as well.

Reiner can feel Bertholdt watching him throughout the morning’s lessons. He himself isn’t too worried; maybe he should be, but something about Annie’s intervention settles him. It could have been so much worse, but it wasn’t and it won’t be. She’s presented them with a way out. She just requires one task, something still to be seen, and then silence on the issue will resume. It does puzzle him, though. It’s all he thinks about in class, drawing endless circles in the margins of his notes. Why would she not tell the police, and what does she have to gain from staying silent? Whatever she wants from them must outweigh her civil dedication to justice. He supposes it wouldn’t be too farfetched for Annie to overlook what she overheard, especially if it serves her own interests to do so. She’s a viciously independent person, after all. And while the conversation she overhead was certainly damning, it isn’t any sort of evidence and she has nothing to prove the extent of their involvement. Or at least that’s how he justifies it to himself.

The bell for lunch doesn’t come fast enough, and when it does finally ring, the students bolt from the classroom. Being anxious makes one hungry, or at least makes such an illusion. Bertholdt catches up with Reiner in the hallway, his books clutched to his chest, tight lines of worry drawn across his face.

“You always look like you’re on the verge of fainting,” Reiner mutters when Bertholdt appears at his side.

“Thanks,” Bertholdt says sullenly. “Can we talk about-?”

“It could be worse,” Reiner says. He murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. The corridors are packed with hungry students, as usual, and they’re trapped in the middle of a mob that’s flooding down to the dining hall at an astronomically slow rate. He speaks so quietly that for a moment he’s not even sure that Bertholdt heard him. But then Bertholdt gives him such an incredible “are you kidding” face, and Reiner grimaces.

“This is pretty bad,” Bertholdt mutters.

Reiner shakes his head. “At least it was Annie, of all people.”

“The only person who’s possibly more of a psychopath than either of us?”

“…whoa, buddy.”

Bertholdt sighs, clutching his books closer. “Sorry,” he says as the student mob rounds the corner and starts to descend towards the dining hall. “I’m just… you know…”

“Yeah, I get it,” Reiner says. “But listen, I’m serious. This isn’t as bad as it could have been, and it’ll be over soon if we just do what she wants.”

Bertholdt glances at the faces that surround them. “I’m just thinking,” he murmurs, “if she overheard us, then who else could have?”

The crowd of students spills into the lower corridor, piling into a lunch line that squeezes through the door of the dining hall. Reiner and Bertholdt find themselves merged into the line behind their classmates. Reiner scans the dining hall as their end of the line slowly makes its way through the door, but Annie is nowhere to be seen. He thought perhaps lunchtime was the “later” she mentioned, that maybe they’d finally get to know what the hell she wants from them. But she’s managed to disappear again, so it looks like they’ll have to wait. He glances back to Bertholdt, who he catches doing the same thing.

“I thought she might be here,” Bertholdt sighs.

“She’s keeping us hanging,” Reiner mutters. The line inches forward, and he trails a hand along the wall as they shuffle closer towards the food. “If she keeps this up much longer…”

“Look,” Connie suddenly exclaims. He’s just ahead of Reiner and Bertholdt, standing in a cluster with the other juniors, and when he points across the dining hall, their gazes all follow, curious. There at the door stand the two detectives. They’re muttering to each other, casting sly glances out over the room. If they notice that they’re being watched, they don’t show it.

“Do you think they’ve found something?” Jean asks.

No one answers. The line moves again, incrementally, and they shuffle forward another foot or so, hardly dropping their gazes. They watch as the quiet conversation is drawn to a close, and Detective Smith takes his leave, slipping out of the dining hall seemingly unnoticed by the other students. Levi is left in his place, watching the normal progression of lunch continue as he leans against the far wall and clicks his pen.

“That stupid pen,” Historia mutters.

Eren steps forward, glancing at the rest of the juniors. “We should ask if they’ve found anything,” he says.

Reiner raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think they’re going to tell us anything.”

“But we should ask,” Eren insists. “Right?”

Ymir pops her gum. “Yeah, you go ask him, Eren.”

Eren balks. “Huh? Why do I have to do it?”

“It was your idea,” Connie mumbles.

“I’m not going over there alone!”

“Then it’s your lucky day,” Mikasa suddenly says from the front of the group. “Because he’s noticed us all staring at him, and he’s coming over here.”

“What?” Eren exclaims, whirling around.

“Good job,” someone mumbles. “Now we’re all suspects.”

The students watch in apprehensive silence at the detective crosses towards them, slipping through the crowd of students with ease. Bertholdt glances at Reiner, but he says nothing. Reiner merely shoves his hands in his pockets and leans back against the wall.

“Detective!” Eren calls as Levi approaches. Levi just raises an eyebrow. Eren hesitates, glancing back to Mikasa and Armin, but they both shrug and turn away.

“Uh, good afternoon, sir,” Eren finally says. “Sorry- we didn’t mean to stare at you, we just saw you talking with Detective Smith and we were just wondering- I mean, have the police found anything? It’s been a few days and we haven’t heard anything.”

“I can’t tell you anything, kid,” Levi says.

Eren’s face falls. “But, sir…”

“It’s an open case and we’re still investigating,” he continues. “Your dean will update you if there’s anything you need to know. Otherwise, you should just go about your business.”

“Sir,” Armin says suddenly, stepping forward. “Please, Marco is our friend.”

Levi sighs. “Look, kids,” he says. “Your friend probably just ran off. It happens all the time.”

“Ran off?” Sasha echoes from the back of the group.

Levi is already turning away. “He’ll turn up soon enough,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Get on now. Your lunch line is moving on without you.”

“How can he say that?” Eren exclaims as soon as they sit down for lunch. He glances around the table for an answer, but no one says anything. Bertholdt stares down at his soup- it’s getting cold- and rubs his eyes to stay awake. Reiner watches him for a moment, as Eren stammers in the silence, then glances back down the table to watch the conversation unfold.

“Does that mean they found something?” Eren continues, exclaiming. “They found something, didn’t they?”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Armin says. He draws his spoon through his soup as he talks. “He might just have said that to get you to stop asking questions.”

“But Marco can’t have run away,” Eren says. He’s met with silence from the rest of the students.

Ymir shrugs. “Who are we to say he didn’t?” she says, tearing a chunk of bread in two. She takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully, and shrugs again as Eren’s defiant gaze narrows in on her. “I’m just speculating. If the police think he ran away, then why should we think differently?”

“He wouldn’t run away,” Jean says from the other end of the table.

He hardly looks up when he says it, his restless fingers hard at work tearing a roll of bread into crumbs. Reiner watches him, but no one else lifts their gazes. They all know who’s speaking. Sasha finally breaks the silence.

“That’s just what the police think,” she says. She’s biting her nails, glancing down at her hands every second or so to make sure she isn’t bleeding. “Isn’t that what the police always think?”

“But how can they think that?” Eren insists. “How can they think anyone would have run away from this place? We’re in the middle of nowhere. There’s nothing but woods and swamp for miles around us. It would take days to reach the nearest town on foot, and-…”

He trails off again and drops his face to stare into his soup. The gloominess lingers across the whole table and exhausted sighs seem to carry down the line from one student to the next. Reiner drags his piece of bread through the pea soup before him, his gaze shifting from Bertholdt, who pushes his bowl away and opts instead to stare at a piece of bread, down the table to Annie, who slurps quietly from her spoon, the only one brave enough to actually touch the soup. Beside her, Armin has let go of his spoon. It’s fallen to one side of his bowl, slipping into the soup, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s crossed his arms over the table, leaning forward, staring distantly at the basket of bread lying in the middle. Seemingly unconscious, he opens his mouth to speak. Reiner watches him, alert, but a few more seconds pass before Armin finally speaks.

“I just remembered,” he says, and everyone turns to look at him. “There was a boy who went missing a few years ago in my hometown.”

The other students watch in anticipation as Armin hesitates, struggling to find the words to continue. Reiner gets the feeling that he regrets ever opening his mouth, because the tense lines drawn through Armin’s brow make him that that there can’t be a good end to this story.

“His parents said that he would never have run away,” Armin continues, “but the police thought that’s what happened. They didn’t bother to investigate. They figured the kid would show up soon enough. Runaways usually come back home once they realize how hard it is to make it on their own.”

He stops and closes his mouth, pursing his lips.

Historia raises an eyebrow. “What happened?”

“They never found him,” Armin says, almost in a sigh, his voice soft. “Maybe he did run away, but his parents were so adamant that he would never leave them. I always thought that he’d been-”

A sudden clang strikes at the other end of the table, and everyone jumps, their spoons clattering against their bowls. Someone’s glass falls over and milk pools across the table. Sasha instantly reaches to clean it up, throwing her napkin down on top of the mess, but everyone else’s gazes turn towards the end of the table, to where Jean stands, his fists slowly uncurling, his spoon nearly still wobbling from where it’s been thrown down.

“Sorry,” he mutters, and without a further word, he turns and stalks out of the dining hall.

“I’m sorry,” Armin says instantly, his brow furrowed with worry. “I didn’t want to upset anyone. I knew as soon as I started talking that I should have kept my mouth shut, but I just couldn’t get that story out of my head and-”

“It’s okay, Armin,” Mikasa is saying, putting a hand to his arm, but Reiner has already turned away, his mind whirling.

He glances across at Bertholdt, whose gaze is still intensely fixed on Armin. When he looks back finally, he looks up across at Reiner. There is something deep and unsettling in Bertholdt’s eyes that Reiner can’t place at first, but then, later, when they’re clearing the dishes from the table, unfinished bowls of soup piled on top of each other, Reiner realizes. It’s the same profound regret that Armin held in his eyes when he was telling the story.

\--

Wednesday afternoons find the junior class outside, sweltering in the humid April air as they walk along the dusty track in the south field. Reiner doesn’t normally mind the mandatory exercise period, but the heat today is unbearable and the sun beats down on them relentlessly. There’s only so much he’s willing to sweat, which is how he and Bertholdt end up dragging their feet as they trudge along the track, kicking up dust as their classmates lap them.

“Great form, Eren,” Reiner class as Eren passes. But his voice rings flat and dull, and he wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead with a sigh.

“This is cruel and unusual,” Bertholdt mutters.

“This is Trost, buddy.”

Bertholdt says nothing to that, at least nothing intelligible. But his grumpy murmurs are cut off suddenly when a small blonde someone appears beside them, silent and unassuming.

“Annie,” Reiner says, “what a pleasant surprise.”

She hardly glances up at him, just brushes back the bangs that cling to her forehead with sweat and nods. “I told you we’d talk later,” she says. “And later is now.”

“Geez,” Reiner sighs, as the trio rounds the curve of the track. He glances up towards the school, but the coach is distracted, answering questions from one of the detectives. He’s not happy to see that guy here, but at least they won’t get yelled at for neglecting the exercise part of their mandatory exercise period.

He glances back to Annie. “You don’t mess around, do you?”

She shrugs. “I know what I want.”

From Reiner’s other side, Bertholdt peers down at Annie, squinting in the sunlight. “What is that, exactly?” he asks. “I mean, what do you want from us?”

A slight breeze gushes over them, but it passes in mere seconds, and whatever relief from the heat it offered disappears with it. Annie pushes her bangs back again, but loose strands of blonde hair stick to her forehead. She doesn’t bother to look up at Reiner or Bertholdt when she speaks, just keeps her pace even with theirs and stares straight ahead.

“It’s simple,” she says. “I want my records.”

Bertholdt blinks. “What?” he exclaims. He glances at Reiner, who furrows his brow. “You mean your school records?”

Annie nods. “I mean all my records. Anything about me that’s kept in the front office, anything that my name on it. And you are going to get that for me.”

“That’s it?” Reiner scoffs, stowing his hands in the loose pockets of his gym shorts. “You just want us to steal some papers from the front office? Please, I could do that in my sleep.”

“No, you couldn’t,” Bertholdt says abruptly, cutting Annie off as she opens her mouth to retort. “She’s not just talking about her academic records. She means everything on file, including all of her personal records. That stuff’s all locked up.”

Reiner pauses for a moment, letting that sink in, then glances back to Annie. “What the hell do you need all that for?”

“It’s none of your business,” she says, kicking up a cloud of dirt.

Reiner scowls. “You made it our business when you blackmailed us into getting involved.”

She purses her lips at that. “Do this for me,” she says, “and I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

“Why do you need us for this?” Reiner asks. “You seem like the kind of person who knows how to pick a lock. Couldn’t you just get your records yourself?”

“I could,” she says with a shrug. “But I’m skating on thin ice with the administration. One more citation and that’s it for me. If I get caught sneaking around, they’ll call my father for an expulsion hearing, and that’s the last thing I need.”

Reiner furrows his brow. “I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but we’re also skating on thin ice, and not just with the administration.”

“There won’t be any ice left to skate on if you two turn down this request,” Annie says. She glances pointedly over her shoulder. Reiner instinctively follows her gaze, as does Bertholdt, and they both turn to see that the other detective as joined his partner and the coach, lingering at the edge of the track, surveying the students. Annie turns back around. “I’m prepared to call those two over here right now, if that’s what you would prefer.”

Reiner sighs and rubs his temples. He glances at Bertholdt, who stares back at him, eyes wide, his gaze shifting in Annie’s direction but not quite there, as if to indicate to her without being too obvious.

“Okay, fine,” Reiner says. “We’ll get your files or whatever. What exactly do you want us to look for? I mean, specifically?”

“Anything with my name on it,” she repeats. “I want all my academic records, all my personal records, anything you can find with _D’Arcy_ on it. There shouldn’t be any trace of me left at this school.”

At that, Bertholdt raises an eyebrow. “Are you leaving or something?”

Annie says nothing, but she purses her lips.

Reiner huffs. “Come on, just tell us. It’s not like we’re gonna say anything about this to anyone.”

“Fine,” Annie exclaims abruptly. “I’m leaving. Is that what you want to hear?”

A beat of silence passes as they tread down the track. Bertholdt falls behind a step or two, his brow furrowed, then catches up. “Leaving?” he repeats. “You mean… for good?”

“For good,” Annie echoes, staring ahead into the sunlight. “I’m getting the hell out of this place and I’m not turning back.”

“You don’t want your father to find you?” Reiner asks immediately, and Annie tosses him a glare before turning away again, her bangs falling into her face.

“The bottom line is,” she says, “I’m disappearing and there’s not going to be anything left of me at this school.”

“You want us to burn all the yearbooks too?”

“Funny,” she says drily. “Are you two in or not?”

Reiner and Bertholdt glance at each other, but their choice has already been made for them. “We’re in,” Reiner says, and what he doesn’t add is, “Not like we have a choice.”

“Good,” she says. “If you get caught, I didn’t know about this.”

“D you have some kind of timeline?” Reiner asks. “You don’t expect us to do this today, right?”

“I thought you’d be eager to get this over with,” she says, “but if that’s not the case, then you can have until the end of the week.”

With that, she picks up her pace and jogs off down the end of the track, clouds of dirt kicking up at her heels. Reiner watches her go, but he loses focus as she nears the curve of the path, and when she runs around the bend, he turns and drops his eyes, sighing.

“It’s a deal, then,” he says. He glances up at Bertholdt, whose gaze is still fixed on the horizon. He snaps his fingers in front of Bertholdt’s face. “Hey, buddy, wake up.”

Bertholdt jumps. “Sorry,” he exclaims. “I was just thinking-…”

“Thinking what? Don’t tell me you’re having doubts now.”

“No,” Bertholdt says, “it’s just… I don’t know. Do you think she’s going to kill herself?”

Reiner blinks. “What?” he exclaims.

Bertholdt shrugs, but his gaze remains serious. “It’s just the way she was talking about her plans. It sounded pretty serious.”

“Bert, Annie’s not going to kill herself.”

“Don’t talk about her like you know her.”

“Then do the same, dummy.”

“I’m just saying,” Bertholdt exclaims as they near the bend of the track. “Should we really be helping her?”

“…you remember why we’re helping her, right?”

“Of course…” He trails off, shaking his head. “I don’t know. I just have a weird feeling about this.”

“Think about it like this,” Reiner says. “Why would she go through the trouble of blackmailing us into stealing her records if she was going to kill herself? Why would her records matter if she was going to be dead soon?”

“I don’t know,” Bertholdt mutters. “Some people like to be prepared.”

He pauses. As they round the bend of the track, their shoes scuffling through the dirt, they glance up almost simultaneously and see Annie running among the other students at the opposite end of the track, her loose bun bobbing behind her.

“She said she wanted to disappear,” Bertholdt says. “Maybe she really meant it.”

Reiner watches her run, squinting in the sunlight. “I don’t know. It sounded to me like she had an agenda. Like she knew-”

“Boys!”

They wince, cursing, as the coach barks at them from across the field, his whistle held high in his hand as a threat.

“That doesn’t look like running to me! Get to it!”

“Fuck off,” Reiner mutters under his breath as they grudgingly transition into a jog.

“It must be a hundred degrees,” Bertholdt groans, “and he wants us to-”

The whistle shrieks across the field. “Enough chit chat, boys! Let me see you run!”

\--

Reiner spends the last class of the day brainstorming. He makes lists in his notebooks, writing in shorthand; his words are in such an indecipherably small font that no one could possibly read them but himself. In the front row, he can’t close his eyes or else he might could a ruler across the knuckles. But he travels the school in his mind, mentally navigating through the dark corridors. They need a new place to talk. Before, it was always the room. But Bertholdt was right; they can’t go back there. And in light of Annie’s blackmail plot, they have to choose their new location carefully. They have to check, and recheck… He scribbles another possible place down onto his list. Most of them are duds, and he knows that. But one or two of them might prove promising, if they can escape from the watching eyes of teachers long enough tonight to find out.

“The kitchen,” Bertholdt repeats when Reiner reads him the list.

Reiner glances up. They’re lingering at the back of the dinner line, behind a group of tittering first years. He’s got the list balled up in his fist, but there were so few items that he can remember them off the top of his head.

“What?” he says. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Are you serious?” Bertholdt mutters. “The kitchen?”

“The kitchen staff leave after they’ve cleaned up dinner,” Reiner says. “And it’s empty until they come in to start breakfast the next morning. It’s perfect.”

“Did you forget that we have a curfew now?” Bertholdt says. “We can’t just waltz around the school as we please.”

“We’ve always had a curfew,” Reiner says, shrugging. “They’re just a little more strict about it now. We’ll find a way to get out.

“And anyways,” Reiner adds as the line shuffles forward, “we might not need to sneak out at all. The kitchen staff is usually gone by what, seven? We can come down during study hall.”

Bertholdt furrows his brow. “I don’t know.”

“What? Come on, it’ll be fine.”

It is fine, it turns out, but only if fine means incredibly dark and eerie. The kitchen door creaks when Reiner pushes it open, later that night, Bertholdt right behind him, and the sound echoes through the dark kitchen. They move inside, their footsteps tapping against the floor. Bertholdt fumbles for the lights, but to no avail. Reiner feels his way along the kitchen counter, and eventually they come to a stop in the middle of the room, squinting into the dark. Water drips somewhere in the room. Reiner blinks; the sound echoes into him dripping into his brain. But he hardly has time to think about it before Bertholdt is in front of him again, starting at him with an impatient urgency.

“We can’t be down here for too long,” Bertholdt mutters. In this long room, everything seems to echo and he winces at how loud his words sound. “We’re supposed to be playing tennis or something, not plotting in the kitchen. If anyone notices we’re not there-”

“I know,” Reiner says. “So let’s plan. How are we getting those files?”

Bertholdt rubs his forehead with one hand. He leans back against the counter and thinks for a moment, before finally saying with a sigh, “It’s going to be hard.”

“What’s going to be so hard about it?” Reiner exclaims. He hops up onto a counter opposite Bertholdt, his legs dangling over the edge. When Bertholdt stares at him, he shrugs. “I’m serious. We got into the dean’s office once, so who’s to say we can’t do it again?”

Bertholdt purses his lips. “We got in because the door was unlocked,” he says, “and it was the middle of the night. There wasn’t anyone around to catch us.”

“So we’ll go in the middle of the night again.”

“There’s a curfew now, Reiner,” Bertholdt sighs. He shakes his head and glances down at his feet. “And I mean a real curfew, not just school rules. What the hell will the police think if they catch us breaking into the dean’s office?”

“She leaves her office unlocked,” Reiner says, “so is it really breaking in?”

Bertholdt glances up at him, and Reiner is damn near impressed when he manages to refrain from rolling his eyes. “The records are in a locked filed cabinet anyways,” he says. “Even if we were able to get into her office, we’ve still got to get into that cabinet. And with all that’s going on, who knows if she’s still leaving the office unlocked?”

Reiner furrows his brow. “How do you know all of this?” he asks. “I mean, if it was up to me, I’d have no idea where to look for the files.”

“Armin,” Bertholdt says simply. “He complains about working in the office all the time.”

He pauses, raising an eyebrow at Reiner. “I’m realizing now that you never listen t to him.”

“Just because I listen doesn’t mean I remember all the details,” Reiner grumbles. He pauses for a moment, then suddenly jerks his head up. “Hey, wait a minute.”

Bertholdt looks up. “What?” 

“Armin.” 

“What about Armin?” 

“We can ask Armin to help us.” 

“What?” Bertholdt exclaims. “We can’t tell him we’re going to steal Anne’s files.” 

“We won’t tell him that,” Reiner says, drumming his fingers along the edge of the counter. “We just need to distract him long enough for one of us to get into the dean’s office. I mean, he’s the only one at the front desk on Thursday afternoons, right?”

Bertholdt hesitates. “…yeah, I guess.”

“So, you can distract him, and I’ll slip by and get into the dean’s office.” He shrugs. “Done.”

Bertholdt rubs his forehead. “Reiner, even if you get into the office…”

He shakes his head, standing upright. “Never mind,” he says. “It’s near curfew. We’ll figure this out tomorrow morning.”

Bertholdt heads off, and Reiner slips down from the counter to follow him. Their footsteps echo across the expanse of the dark kitchen as they cross towards the door. Streaks of yellow light splash across the room when Bertholdt opens the door. Reiner reaches for the door, but he lingers in the room for another moment, standing there in the bright doorway. Somewhere across the room, water continues to drip. He glances behind himself, his skin suddenly pricked with chills. But the kitchen is just as empty as it was when they came in. Reiner turns and steps out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Lights across the school flicker out as Reiner and Bertholdt head down the empty corridors. They trail down one hallway after another, taking the back passage to the second floor. Curfew hasn’t begun yet, but it would surely be suspicious if they were found lurking around in the corridors. Bertholdt leads them up the back staircase with a yawn, and when they round the corner at the top, the common room door suddenly flies open, nearly smacking Bertholdt in the face.

“Oh, Jesus,” Bertholdt exclaims, stumbling backward.

There in the light stands Annie, her textbooks clasped in one hand.

“Geez, Annie,” Reiner says. “What are you trying to do?”

She hardly blinks. “I wasn’t trying to scare you,” she says, stepping out of the doorway. “I’m actually trying to see as little of you two as possible.”

“Thanks,” Reiner mutters. As the common room door slowly swings shut behind her, he glances inside and frowns when he sees an empty room. “Hey, where is everyone? It’s not curfew yet.”

“Everyone went to bed,” she says. “Because we have to get up early.”

Bertholdt furrows his brow. “Wait, what?”

“Geez, do you two pay attention to anything?” she says, tucking her books closer to herself. “The morning bell’s going to be at six instead of seven. There’s a special sunrise service.”

She peers up at them, but her icy eyes are hardly visible under her bags. “For the lost boy.”

Bertholdt turns away, tugging at his tie, but Reiner just blinks at her. “Is that what they’re saying now?” he asks. “He’s not just a runaway anymore?”

“You tell me,” Annie says bluntly.

Reiner blinks. “Well, gee, I don’t know anything about it. I was just asking.”

Annie turns away, rolling her eyes, and she starts down the dark corridor towards the north wing and the girls’ dormitories, but she turns back around after only few steps. “That’s a good story,” she says, giving him a sharp glare. “Have you been practicing?”

Bertholdt grabs Reiner by the arm before he can say anything. “Come on,” Bertholdt mutters. He leads Reiner off into the south wing, their fast footsteps echoing down the dark corridor as they go. Before they round a corner towards the dormitories, Reiner glances over his shoulder in time to catch a glimpse of Annie, her back towards them, starting off into the dark north wing.

The other boys have already gathered in the dormitory when they arrive. They linger about the room, reluctantly getting ready for bed, some of them already tossed back against the pillows with Bibles on their laps. Bertholdt immediately trudges to his bed, tugging his tie loose. Reiner follows, slower, and collapses onto the edge of the bed.

The usual manner of the night proceeds in a languid, dreamlike way. Reiner follows the other boys in the routine of getting ready for bed: changing into their pajamas, brushing their teeth, and setting their Bibles carefully on their bedside tables. Reiner leaves his where it is, untouched on the lower shelf of his nightstand, and crawls into his bed. To his side, he sees Bertholdt’s form tucked under a stack of blankets, curled up and turned away, even though the rest of the room still mills about. Reiner reaches out to his bedside table to grab his comb. It’s somewhere in the drawer, is all he knows. He’s good at misplacing things.

The drawer creaks when he slides it open, and he digs for a second, tossing through old paper scraps and loose coins- damn, he should count those pennies, he might be rich- before something pricks his finger and he jerks his hand out, hissing. He glances back down into the drawer, but in the dim light, he can barely see. He reaches back in, fumbles around gingerly, and finds the thing that pricked him. It’s a pin, he can tell. He pulls it out and lifts it up over his head. He squints. What is-? And then it all comes back to him.

“Reiner?” someone calls from across the room. “What the hell are you doing? Can we turn out the lights already?”

He clutches the pin in his fist and drops his hand down to his side. It pricks his palm, and he feels a hot drop of blood ooze out, but he holds his hand tightly anyways.

“Nothing,” he says. “And yeah, you can turn out the lights.”

The room goes black, and boys clamber into their creaky beds, yawning. Reiner drops back onto his bed, his head flopping down against the pillow. The curtains are completely drawn: no moonlight shining through tonight. He moves to open his palm, but someone near him coughs and he snaps his hand shut again. Finally, after a moment of silence, enough for one or two boys to start snoring, he raises his fist up to his face and opens his hand. In the dark, he can only see shapes, even so close to his eyes. But he can feel the pin in his hand. The pin tip is sharp, tipped with his blood. He traces a finger around the body of the pin: it’s rounded at the top, but it comes to a point at the bottom, and its surface is smooth under his skin, the tiny engraved letters sliding under his finger. His heart pounds. He’d forgotten about this tiny thing, this tiny metal witness. It’s the only decent shred of evidence in this case and he’s got it tucked away in his bedroom drawer.

Minutes tick by, and when someone across the room stirs in their sleep, their bed creaking under their shifting weight, Reiner suddenly jolts up, shaken from his delicate reverie. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, but the room is still blank as ink. The pin weighs heavily, ominously, in his hand, and sudden panic sets in his stomach. God, he can’t keep this thing here. He’s got to get rid of it, just not tonight, not right now. Gingerly, he reaches across his bed and sets the pin back into the drawer, shifting a few things around on top of it to keep it from plain sight. He eases the drawer shut as quietly as possible and lies back down, facing his nightstand. One more night, it can stay there, but then he’s got to get rid of it. Tomorrow. He’ll get rid of it tomorrow…

He drifts off to sleep.

\--

They drove into the woods. The van shuffled along in the darkness, trundling over the dirt road as it went, and the shovel in the back clinked against the car floor as they drove on. Bertholdt winced at that, but Reiner kept his hard gaze on the dimly lit road in front of them. On they went. He had no plan in mind for where they were headed; he knew only that they needed to go deep in the woods, far from the school boundaries, far into the woods where no one would ever set foot. He gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white, and he pressed the van onwards. He felt Bertholdt watching him, but he had nothing to say. What could he possibly say in a moment like this?

The van continued on down the forest road. They were nearing the edge of the familiar forest, past the reaches of even the most adventurous wandering students, and they were headed deeper into the forest, following the trail that would meander through the thick woods for nearly an hour before it finally reached the neighboring town. Reiner sped the car on. As they drove down the road, he recognized a sign ahead that signaled the exit for another dirt path: _Lake Stohess, two miles_.

The sign caught his eyes as they sped past. He didn’t think about it in the split second that he saw it, but as soon as it was gone, an omen lingering in the rearview mirror, he realized what it meant. He knew what they were going to do. He slammed on the brakes, his hand instinctively snatching at the clutch. The tires shrieked as they pealed to a halt in the middle of the dirt road, skidding through the dust, and Bertholdt flew forward, barely catching himself on the dashboard in time to save his face from smashing into it.

“What the hell, Reiner?” he exclaimed when the car was fully stopped. He sat up straight, blinking wide, and glanced across at Reiner. “What are you doing?”

Reiner jerked the clutch into reverse and leaned back, one arm on the wheel as he turned to look out the rear window. “Lake Stohess,” he said simply.

Bertholdt blinked at him. “The swamp?”

“Yep.”

“What about it? What the hell are we doing?”

The car backed up down the dirt road, the motor grinding as the wheels rolled backwards. Finally, it came to a gentle stop, the headlights shining on the sign. Reiner gestured out the passenger window. Bertholdt turned to look, squinting in the early morning darkness.

“ _Lake Stohess, two miles_ ,” he read off the sign. He glanced over his shoulder at Reiner. “I know where the lake is, okay, but what are we doing?”

“We’re going to the lake,” Reiner said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy hellaween


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner and Bertholdt follow through with their promise to Annie, but they encounter an obstacle before they even begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to kaschy for [this incredible work of art](https://kaschy.tumblr.com/post/152992526180/they-looked-down-together-marcos-head-had-split).

“Through the Valley” by Shawn James

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/dktJ/)

“I can’t walk on the path of the right, because I’m wrong”

\--

It is barely dawn when the morning bell sounds.

The bell is the same as always: a hollow echo that rings across campus and resonates through the empty corridors of Trost. But today that echo seems to linger. It holds in the air for a few long moments after its last strike, and Reiner lies awake in his bed, blinking at the ceiling as the sound of the bell bounces in his head. It is an endless sound; even after it has faded from the hallways of the school, it remains in his mind, ringing back and forth every second. He closes his eyes and runs a loose hand through his tousled hair, praying he’ll fall back asleep. But the bell continues to ring. Across the room, he hears the other boys rousing from sleep.

He lies in bed for another moment. He was dreaming about something, but he can’t remember it now. Whatever it was, it felt real, all of it. That thought stirs something in him. He glances sideways at Bertholdt’s bed, just in time to catch him yawning as he swings his legs over the edge of his bed and lets his feet drop to the floor. Bertholdt meets his eyes when he glances up. But he says nothing, just stands silently and follows a line of boys to the bathroom.

Reiner takes his time getting dressed. The sun is barely up as he tugs his tie on and slips the knot together. He stands at the windowsill, staring out into the gray morning. The field before Trost stretches for what must be a mile or two before it is overtaken by the forest: yards of open grass that brush up against your ankles. In the morning, the field is topped with dew and the sparkling rays of the rising sunshine through each droplet. Reiner watches from the window. His tie hangs loose around his neck, hardly knotted correctly, and his shoulders instinctively jerk back when someone suddenly reaches across to fix it.

Bertholdt tugs the tie tight until the crumpled knot sits between the lapels of Reiner’s collar. He glances over his shoulder; the other boys are starting out the door, pulling their blazers on.

“Come on,” Bertholdt says, dropping his hands. He turns away. “We don’t want to be late.”

The chapel is sequestered away from the hectic life of the main building. A gravel path leads from the back of the school, curves past the gardens, and trails north towards the edge of the thick wood. It slicks into the forest at an angle, twisting and curving through the trees until suddenly the dark, foreboding doors of the chapel are upon it. The chapel looms over the path, its stark white wooden panels in ready contrast to the dark forest around it. It is not so far from the edge of the woods that sunlight does not pierce through, casting dappled rays over the gray roof of the chapel. But it is deep enough into the woods that the sounds of the forest reign: birds flutter overhead, squirrels shuffle afoot, and crickets sing through the brush. Any noise from Trost is lost in the clutter of the woods.

Reiner has always thought that the isolation of the chapel was meant to evoke a religious experience, and he thinks it again that morning as the student body shuffles down through the woods. The wood air is crisp at dawn, even at this time of year; it bites through his shirt when a swift breeze blows through the leaves. The students tread towards the chapel, as the sunlight glimmering over the trees grows steadily brighter. The students are silent except for the shuffling of their footsteps along the gravel. It’s rather macabre, Reiner muses: holding a ceremonial service for a boy presumed missing. If Marco turns up alive, well…

He glances at the faces around him as the mass of students begins to pour through the chapel doors. They’re in alphabetical order by class: an unusual turn. But this has been an unusual week, and the administration is probably afraid of losing another students. Reiner thinks of Annie, who lingers somewhere behind him in line.

The old wooden floorboards creak beneath his feet as he steps into the chapel. He looks up; the long, dark frame of the building looms over him. The students shuffle further inside, and Reiner soon finds himself squeezed into the end seat of a pew, Armin on his other side. When the chapel is full and the students packed into the pews, the room suddenly falls deathly quiet. The doors are swung shut, the entire building creaking with the motion, and something flutters in the rafters over their heads.

The service starts. Reiner’s head spins. He can’t focus on what the preacher is saying. He blinks, trying to wake himself back to reality, but instead his vision blurs, his view of the service clouding, until the preacher’s gesturing hands are just streaks of color across his eyes. Something brushes against his arm, and suddenly he can see again, the clouds melting away in front of his eyes. He glances to see what roused him, but it’s just Armin, reaching across him to get the Bible stuffed in the pew pocket.

Reiner glances across the aisle. Bertholdt is in the next row, between Mina and Franz, but he doesn’t meet Reiner’s gaze. He sits with his head bowed and his eyes closed as the preacher gives his sermon. Reiner isn’t listening. The words of the preacher linger around him like a fly circling his head, but he lets them buzz and fade away, his attention drawn instead to the wooden cross hanging above the pulpit.

The wooden Jesus is faded. Its paint is worn and bleak, having hung for years in the damp chapel. The figure is downcast, solemnity carved into his wooden face. Dusty red paint dots his forehead: blood from his crown of thorns. Reiner watches the figure. His eyes trail over its outstretched arms and its sorrowful face. His stomach lurches.

“Do not let your hearts be troubled,” the preacher says suddenly.

His voice echoes through the long, narrow chapel, striking off the wooden rafters, and it brings Reiner back, thrusting him from his reverie until he finds himself fixated on the preacher and his words. He watches him carefully, mesmerized by the grave contours across his face, and when the preacher speaks again, suddenly it’s all Reiner can hear.

“You believe in God,” the preacher continues, staring out across the quiet sea of students. “Believe also in me. My Father’s house has many rooms; if that were not so, would I have told you that I am going there to prepare a place for you? And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come back and take you to be with me that you also maybe where I am. You know the way to the place where I am going.”

\--

Robbed of a last hour of sleep, Trost passes the dreary morning in yawns. Once or twice, someone nearly falls asleep in class and receives a whack across the back of their hand. But beyond the early rise, another source of exhaustion lingers throughout the school. The sunrise service was an unsettling reminder of what the investigation was failed to uncover: the truth. It has been days since Marco disappeared, but it feels like weeks. And with every passing hour, the dread rises. The detectives are still here; they grab staff for second members, send hounds out into the woods, and linger in the back of everyone’s minds. Reiner doesn’t know what they think they’re going to find, but they’re not letting up yet. They must be onto something, or they’d have moved on by now.

“We have a plan,” Bertholdt asks, “right?”

Reiner glances up at him. They’re at the end of the lunch line, and today the progress is slow enough that they’ve been stuck in the doorway for ten minutes. Reiner purses his lips, looking away, and shoves his hands in his pockets.

“I’m working on it,” he says.

He swears Bertholdt rolls his eyes. “Oh, good,” Bertholdt mutters.

“I haven’t heard any bright ideas from you.”

“I thought you were the plan guy.”

“I am, so let me work on it and then I’ll get back to you.”

The line moves forward an inch, but Reiner does not bother to move from his position leaning against the doorframe. He stares out across the dining hall. The students are quieter than usual. They eat in relative silence, their spoons clinking against their bowls; conversations can be heard here and there, but the students speak in low voices to the people directly next to them. They look drained: furrowed brows, sunken eyes, quiet lips. Reiner draws his gaze out over the third-year table. They look the worst of all. If they hadn’t thought the worst about Marco’s fate before, they do now, after that ominous sunrise service.

Someone at the third-year table looks up to meet his gaze. He instinctively locks eyes with them, but he knows he should not have as soon as he does. Annie looks back at him, her gaze piercing even from across the length of the dining hall. She raises an eyebrow- or maybe he’s just imagining it, because he’s never known her to be even that minimally expressive. But it seems to him like she’s asking a question, and he knows exactly what it is.

“She knows you don’t have a plan,” Bertholdt mutters to him.

Reiner stares at Annie for just another moment, then turns to Bertholdt. “I do have a plan,” he says. “It’s brilliant.”

Bertholdt raises an eyebrow. “That seems doubtful.”

“Well, hear me out first.”

The lunch line steps forward again, but Reiner neglects to move. On any other day, a passing lunch monitor might scold him; but no one has said anything yet about his slack posture or his loose tie. The teachers are exhausted as well.

“Maybe not brilliant,” Reiner says, “but it’s the best thing I’ve come up with.”

“So what is it?”

“It’s genius in its simplicity.” He pauses to crack his knuckles. “We’ll go into the office today during free period, when Armin is working. You’ll distract him, and I’ll sneak into the dean’s office and get the files.”

“That’s your plan?” Bertholdt exclaims. He crosses his arms. “That’s the same plan we came up with yesterday.”

“And it’s the best plan,” Reiner says. “I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t call it the _best_ plan: it’s the one that will work.”

“Reiner-”

“Listen,” Reiner says, finally stepping forward with the line. They still linger a step or two behind the other students, but he drops his voice anyways. “We agreed that we can’t go at night. With the curfew and everything- we’ll get caught. That means we have to go during the day, and today is our best chance. Armin’s working the front desk, and the admins will be at their afternoon meeting.”

“Unless they cancel it,” Bertholdt mutters.

Reiner shrugs. “Unless they cancel it, but why would they? I mean, now more than ever they need to meet. I heard someone say they’re gonna close the school early if this goes on much longer-”

“ _This_ ,” Bertholdt breathes. For a moment, he seems like he’s going to say something else, but he purses his lips and turns away, leaning back against the wall next to Reiner.

The line shuffles forward again.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Reiner says.

Bertholdt takes a deep breath. “How am I supposed to distract Armin?”

“Ask to use the phone,” Reiner says with another shrug. “That should take a while, right? You have to sign in and all that jazz.”

“He doesn’t stand there the whole time I’m on the phone,” Bertholdt mutters. “I know you wouldn’t know that, because you never call your parents, but-”

“What the hell do I have to say to my parents?”

“What the hell do _I_ have to say to my parents?” Bertholdt says. “I’ve got to think of something now, because apparently I’ll be calling them in an hour.”

“You’ve gotta make summer plans, right?”

Bertholdt crosses his arms again and stands up straight. “It’s nothing that couldn’t be said in a letter.”

He glances at Reiner suddenly, his eyes narrowing. “You remember those file cabinets are locked, right?” he asks. “Not to mention the dean’s office? Do you have a brilliant plan for that too?”

“Oh, yeah,” Reiner says, digging into his pocket. He pulls out a thin hairpin. “Sasha gave me a whole bunch of bobby pins. I bet I can figure it out.”

Bertholdt rubs his forehead. “Did she ask what you needed those for?”

He shoves the hairpin back into his pocket. “I told her I needed to pick a lock. She thought that was funny.”

“ _Jesus_ , Reiner.”

Reiner and Bertholdt linger for as long as they can after the lunch bell rings. They take their time gathering up their trays, idly picking up forks and napkins as they surreptitiously watch Armin from across the room: he deposits his plates, gathers his books, and disappears into the corridor. Bertholdt glances across at Reiner, but Reiner doesn’t move. They should wait. If they’re too eager and go into the office before the staff has left for their weekly meeting, they won’t be able to follow through with their plan. After the last ring of the bell, Reiner jerks his head in the direction of the door. Only a few other students still linger at the tables, whispering. Most of their class has already gone off, presumably to the common room. It is a dreary day, after all, with the humidity hanging low across the land.

They dump their trays in the disposal and start for the front hall. Reiner leads. Bertholdt’s anxious pace sets him only slightly behind, but he wrings his hands ceaselessly. When they come to the central corridor, Reiner starts for the door just underneath the grand staircase that will set them on the entrance to the main office; but he stops suddenly, Bertholdt squeaking to a halt behind him, and turns on his heel.

“Better idea,” he mutters, starting off down the corridor again.

He leads Bertholdt back into the bowels of the school, headed again for the dining hall. But when they enter the back corridor, Reiner starts for the stairs instead, Bertholdt following at his heel. They climb to the second floor and restart their passage to the front hall. They pass a wing of classrooms and a hallway of faculty offices before coming onto the main hall again, this time elevated. The library sits just atop the grand staircase, and its doors are open today, inviting students in to the dark bookshelves. Reiner crosses past it, beckoning a bewildered Bertholdt behind him, and stands to the side of the top of the staircase, just behind a sculpted column.

“I just want to make sure,” Reiner mutters as they lean against the column. “Their meeting is at, what, 1:15?”

“Yeah, I think so,” Bertholdt whispers, glancing down at his wristwatch. “It’s nearly time.”

“I just want to make sure they’re really leaving,” Reiner says. “Just to be certain.”

From their spot at the top of the staircase, they have a surveillance point on the whole entrance hall. The front office complex lies below them on the left, behind a wooden door with stenciled glass windows. On the other side of the hall lie the offices that the detectives have repurposed for their investigation. One of those doors hangs open, but a minute or two ticks by and nothing stirs over there. Reiner and Bertholdt’s gazes are quickly drawn back to the front offices when the door opens and a procession of administration staff file out, notebooks and pencils in hand. They pass beneath the staircase, heading into the main corridor and presumably to the conference room that lies just on the other side.

Bertholdt glances at his watch again. “That should be the last of them. It just turned fifteen minutes past.”

“Good,” Reiner says. He pauses for another moment, just in case; then he beckons to Bertholdt. “Come on.”

They spill out of their hiding place and nearly tumble down the stairs. When their feet hit the bottom, Reiner pauses again, holding a hand out to stop Bertholdt. He gives them a moment to take a breath before they go in, and then they cross towards the front office.

“Hoover!”

Bertholdt jumps at the call that echoes through the empty hall. Reiner spins, furrowing his brow.

“What-?” he exclaims. He falls silent when he sees Officer Ral stalking towards them, her pinned hair bobbing with each step. Reiner glances sharply across at Bertholdt, but Bertholdt does not meet his eyes, frozen in place as the officer approaches them.

“There you are!” she exclaims, stepping before them. She clutches an open file in one hand and a pencil is tucked behind one of her ears. Reiner glances across the hall at the open door that leads to the makeshift investigation office. She must have been standing in the doorway, just out of sight.

“I’m glad I caught you,” Officer Ral says. She brushes a piece of hair back behind her ear. “Someone said they saw you headed this way, but it seemed like I might have to chase you over the whole school before I found you.”

“Uh, good afternoon, ma’am,” Reiner says. He stows his hands in his pockets again and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, glancing sideways at Bertholdt. “How can we help you?”

“The detectives are bringing you back in, Hoover,” she says, nodding at Bertholdt.

“What?” he cries.

She raises an eyebrow, surprised.

Bertholdt swallows a mouthful of air. “I mean, it’s just, I was already interviewed once.”

“And now you’re being interviewed twice,” Officer Ral says. “They just have a few more questions to clear up a few details. I hope you didn’t have any plans for the afternoon.”

He hesitates for a moment. When a beat of awkward silence passes and he still has not moved an inch, Reiner stomps on his foot.

Bertholdt jumps awake. “Uh, no, ma’am,” he stutters. “No plans.”

She beams. “Great. Well, come on, then, they’re waiting.”

She beckons him away, already turning to head back to the detectives’ offices. Bertholdt stumbles after her, throwing a worried glance over his shoulder at Reiner. Reiner does his best to convey both _don’t panic_ and _what the hell was wrong with your first interview_ in one glance, but it must come out wrong, because the expression of dread on Bertholdt’s face only intensifies as he is led into the investigation office. Officer Ral swings the door shut behind them, and Reiner is left standing alone in the front hall. He lets a moment of silence pass; the emptiness rings out around him. He sucks in a sharp breath.

“Well, shit,” he mutters.

He glances behind himself. In etched letters on the glass window of the front office door reads _Administration._ He purses his lips. Maybe if he waits for Bertholdt, they could come up with a sounder plan to execute tonight or tomorrow. But he doesn’t know what plan that would be, and if he waits any longer, they risk not being able to get the files at all. On any other afternoon, the office is packed with administrative staff, each of them automatically suspicious of students. They have to get the records today, while Armin is working- unless Annie is willing to wait a whole week. But somehow Reiner doubts that. They could come back tonight, but they’d have to pull off something much more desperate, something that would probably involve getting caught by any one of the teachers who’s pulling night duty during the curfew. Given everything that’s happening, he reckons there’s a fat chance they’d ever get away with that.

He starts towards the office door, dragging his feet across the tile in an attempt to delay the inevitable. He stops just before the door and cracks his knuckles. Maybe he’ll get lucky and Armin will have slipped out for a moment. Maybe he’ll be able to get into the dean’s office without any kind of plan. He takes another short breath in, then swings the door open and steps inside.

“Hey, Armin,” he says instantly, but his heart drops with the words. He’s really overestimating his luck.

Armin glances up from the front desk, where he sits, buried in stacks of scattered papers. Some have fallen onto the floor, and more flutter down as Reiner approaches the desk. Armin smiles up at him, stacks of papers gripped in each hand, but it’s a hurried, grimacing grin, the kind when you don’t have time to be much more than polite.

“Hey, Reiner,” he sighs, dropping one of the stacks onto the end of the desk. A loose sheet flies off the top, but Armin snatches it before it hits the ground. He pops back up and takes a moment to catch his breath. “Do you need to make a phone call or something?”

How easy it would have been, if only everything had gone according to plan. For a brief moment, Reiner hesitates, thinking maybe he should turn on his heel and leave. Maybe Bertholdt’s interview is really just a few short questions, and maybe if Reiner waits, they’ll have enough time to follow through with their plan like they hoped. But Armin is staring up at him, expecting an answer. While he’s here, he might as well try.

“Just wondering how things are going,” Reiner offers, leaning over the desk on his elbows. It is a lame attempt at a lie and they both know it. When Armin raises an eyebrow, Reiner hurriedly adds, “I mean, Bertholdt’s busy and I don’t really know what to do with myself now, you know.”

“Oh,” Armin says. He turns back to his papers.

Somehow it is more believable that Reiner is desperate for attention without Bertholdt than that he just wants to check in on Armin, whom he happens to consider a friend.

“Well,” Armin sighs, digging through a stack of papers, “if you’re really that bored, you could help me sort these files.”

Reiner cranes his neck to get a better look at the papers. For a brief second, he imagines that it is going to be this easy to walk out of here with Annie’s files in hand, but when he sees the papers, he frowns: just maintenance reports. Still, he’s improvising this scheme as he goes, and anything that gets him deeper into the office is a step in the right direction, as far as he’s concerned.

He shrugs. “Sure.”

“I’m just sorting them by the date they were filled,” Armin explains when Reiner crosses to the other side of the desk to join him. “It’s, uh, not totally on the books for you to have access to these kind of records, but I can’t finish this by myself, so I’ll take all the help I can get.”

Reiner can’t help but grin. “Okay, you truant,” he says, and Armin’s face turns pink. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten about those dress code violations.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my hair,” Armin mutters.

They sort the papers in silence for a while. Reiner has no idea what he is doing- with the files, but mostly with the plan. His mind buzzes as he stacks papers into piles, hardly glancing at the dates stamped on the top of each paper. He finds himself watching Armin from the other side of the desk, silently praying for some kind of emergency that will force Armin away, so he is alone to jimmy his way into the dean’s office. Getting in is going to be hard enough; getting back out is another obstacle that he hasn’t solved yet, but he’ll cross that bridge when he gets to it.

His luck is turning around, at it happens.

Not ten minutes have passed before Armin glances at his watch and stands suddenly, papers flying off the desk. “Sorry,” he says when Reiner jumps at his movement. “I forgot, I’m supposed to help that policewoman in the archives.”

“We have archives?” Reiner exclaims.

Armin shrugs, pushing a loose strand of hair back behind his ears. “Not really, it’s just a shelf or two in the cellar. But the detectives want a plan of the whole school, and we think that’s where the blueprints are kept. I don’t know, I’m just supposed to unlock the door for her…”

He trails off, snatching a set of keys off a hook on the side of the desk. Reiner falters; there’s probably a key to the dean’s office on that ring.

Armin glances over at him. “You don’t have to stay,” he says. “I shouldn’t be gone that long, but I mean, I’m not going to make you stay and help me.”

“Oh, I don’t mind,” Reiner says, tossing another random sheet into a pile. “It’s still better than homework.”

Armin hesitates for just a moment, staring at him; then he clasps the keys in his hand and starts for the door. “I’ll be back soon,” he says.

As soon as the office door closes behind him, Reiner bolts.

The office complex is quiet this afternoon, with most of the staff gone to the weekly meeting. Reiner glances down the narrow hallway behind the front desk, where private officers doors line the wall all the way down to the end. He hears the faint _ding_ of a typewriter and steps back for a moment. One or two staff members must still be here, working through the afternoon break. He pauses for another moment, but no doors open and no one appears in the hallway to stop him. He starts down the hall, reaching into his pocket to grab a couple of bobby pins.

He hears the typewriter going in the first office he passes, but as he makes his way further down the hall, he seems to step further into a quiet zone. He dodges down towards the end of the hallway, darting past the empty offices until he comes to the dean’s office at the very end. Her name is etched into the glass on the window of her door. He peers inside; the glass is frosted, but he can tell that the room is dark. He glances over his shoulder to make sure he’s truly alone, and then sets to work with the bobby pins. He has only done this once or twice, but if he’s remembering it correctly, then it shouldn’t be that hard. He fiddles with the pins; he spent most of history class coercing them into the right angles in order to undo the lock. He jiggles one pin inside the lock, then the other as a lever. With a little maneuvering, he pops the lock in just a minute or two. Not bad for being out of practice.

He darts inside the dean’s office and quietly shuts the door behind himself. The office is dark, even with the curtains drawn back; the day is still cloudy and gloomy. Still, he does not turn on the light: better to stay in the dark than to draw attention with a light that is not supposed to be there. He glances around. The dean’s desk is stacked high with folders and files, but behind her desk lies what he is looking for: the filing cabinets. He jumps around the desk and crosses to them quickly, muttering under his breath. _D’Arcy, D’Arcy:_ the cabinets are labeled by letter of the alphabet, presumably last name. He reaches for the first one, A-E, and jerks on the handle. The drawer does not budge, and he curses. He had forgotten that these would be locked too.

A clock on the far wall ticks ominously as he fumbles with the bobby pins again. It has only been a few minutes since Armin left. Frankly, he thinks he’s making record time for stealing student files, but there is no telling when Armin will be back and there is only one door in and out of the office. If he’s not at the front desk when Armin gets back, well, he’ll surely come up with some excuse for wandering around the office complex, but it definitely won’t be convincing enough to totally rid himself from suspicion.

Something clicks, and he jerks the cabinet drawer open, the files inside rattling against each other as they move. Perfect. He sticks the bobby pines between his teeth and digs into the files. A, B, C, D… D’Arcy is the first name that appears, and geez, Annie has a thick student file. It’s nearly the width of his hand. He pulls it out from the drawer, yanking it up with two hands to keep the papers from falling out the sides. He flips the folder open just to make sure: yeah, that’s Annie’s dusty student records photo staring back at him on the first page. He’s tempted to sit down and read the whole damn thing right there, because there must be some dirt on her in this file that she does not want to get out. But the clock is literally ticking, and he has to go.

He lets the drawer fall shut and dodges back out into the hallway. With Annie’s files in hand, he creeps back up the corridor and peers around the corner, relieved to find that Armin has not beat him back to the front desk. He takes his seat again, then pauses for a moment and stares at the _D’Arcy_ file which has fallen into his lap. He can’t let Armin see him leave with this. He pauses for a moment, then gives in and does the inevitable and shoving the file halfway down his pants, pulling his shirt back down to cover up the rest of it. Well, he looks like an idiot, but at least an idiot who has the files he needs.

The office door swings open, and Armin steps inside, brushing his bangs out of his face. He sees Reiner and gives him a nod.

“It turns out we don’t have blueprints in the basement,” he says with a sigh. “My next guess would be the dean’s office, but I’ll have to ask her another time.”

“Too bad,” Reiner says, clutching the folder to his stomach.

Evidently Armin can’t see it from where he stands, or else Reiner is sure he would at least raise an eyebrow. Armin starts to cross back around to the other side of the desk

“Hey, you know what,” he says, “I think I’m gonna head out.”

“I don’t blame you,” Armin says, plopping back down into his seat. “I guess you’ve had enough maintenance reports for one afternoon?”

“Yeah, I don’t envy you,” Reiner says, edging towards the door. “So, uh, thanks for the company, and I guess I’ll see you in class.”

With that, he disappears out the door.

His footsteps echo against the stone as he crosses hurriedly through the corridors. The documents scratch against his stomach as he walks, but he holds them tighter underneath his shirt. He’s got to find somewhere to take them. He isn’t going anywhere, just walking until his mind catches up to his body and thinks of a place to hide. He crosses through the back hallways of the school, glancing down each intersecting corridor to see if anyone’s coming. But he’s alone down here. It’s a sleepy afternoon, most of the students tucked away to play cards or finish homework. He should be fine to just pick an empty classroom and sort through the files there, but something tells him to hide. He hasn’t gotten away with this until the files are in Annie’s hands. Then it’s her problem.

He passes the dining hall again, careful to sneak past, but he stops in his tracks, his shoes squeaking against the tile floor, when he catches a glimpse of the bathroom door around the corner. He approaches cautiously, one hand clutched around his stomach to keep the files from slipping. He presses an ear to the wooden door: no one inside. Relieved, he rushes into the bathroom, the door swinging shut behind him, and he pulls the scrambled files out from under his shirt.

It’s nothing interesting. It’s the same shit that he has in his file, the same shit that everyone has in their file: detentions, demerits, and grades just decent enough to prevent probation. He flips through the file again, hoping he missed something the first time. But other than Annie’s unflattering student photo tacked to the personal information page at the front, there’s nothing incriminating here: no reason to be in such a rush to destroy the papers.

Reiner lets the folder fall shut and slumps back against the wall. He glances at his watch. It’s half past two. He should get back.

\--

The folder stays wedged between his textbooks for the rest of the afternoon. It’s so stuffed with files and reports and demerits that he finds he cannot take his eyes away from it, in the paranoid fear that the papers are going to spill off his desk and scatter. He does not get a chance to talk to Bertholdt about the files, or ask him how his interview went, for that matter, before classes resume for the rest of the day. He is keenly aware of the panic that must be setting into Bertholdt after whatever the hell that second interview was about, and he is anxious to find out everything.

Reiner finally corners him that night just before dinner. The boys’ washroom is crowded, as usual, students huddled around sinks to wash their hands and loosen their ties. The dark weather has let up just in time for the sunrise over the woods, and it plays golden lights across the floor of the bathroom, dimmed a bit through the frosted windows. The dark mood, however, still lingers. The early rise this morning did no one any favors, but by suppertime, the fatigue has turned into defeat. The boys are even quieter now, constantly aware of the peer missing from their midst. If the dean thought a service for Marco would restore hope and repair worries, she was wrong. It seems the service only sealed the deal.

Bertholdt jumps when Reiner follows him into the bathroom stall, holding the door open with a forceful hand. Bertholdt turns, an utterly perplexed expression on his face.

“I know we’re friends,” he says, “but this is a bit much.”

“The kitchen,” Reiner mutters. His voice is low, aware of the washroom’s echo. “After dinner. We need to talk.”

It is not until well after dinner that they do talk. Perhaps he is just more anxious than usual, but the first half hour of study hall seems to pass in an eternity. They wait in the common room, hardly glancing at their homework, until the chapel bell rings out seven strikes; then they find their way downstairs, tiptoeing into the dark kitchen to be alone. The long room is just as eerie as before, if not more. Something has changed in the air since the sunrise service, and Reiner can feel it. Something is different now. And although they’ve done what Annie asked, he has the feeling she will not be the last of their troubles.

He leans back against a countertop, watching Bertholdt, who meanders ceaselessly around the kitchen, cracking his knuckles over and over, until finally Reiner clears his throat. Bertholdt glances up at him.

“So,” Reiner starts.

Bertholdt stares at him. “So what?”

“What do you mean, _so what_?” Reiner exclaims. “What the hell was that about today?”

“…the interview?”

“Yes, the-” Reiner cuts himself off, cocking his head. “Yes, the interview, what else would I be talking about?”

Bertholdt glances away again, his brow furrowing, and he runs a slow hand through his hair. His face is taut and pensive, and he takes a moment before responding. Reiner can hardly stand the tense silence, but he waits, watching as Bertholdt pace across the tile floor before finally coming back before Reiner.

“I don’t know,” he says.

Reiner frowns. “What?”

“I don’t know!” Bertholdt exclaims, throwing his hands out.

His voice echoes across the dark kitchen. He freezes, glancing up at Reiner, then falls back against the counter, his hands clutching at the edge of the tile. He stares down at his feet. “Sorry,” he mutters with a sigh. “It’s just… I mean, they didn’t accuse me of anything.”

Reiner hesitates. “But?”

Bertholdt purses his lips. “But I think they suspect- well, not that I’m, you know, the culprit of anything, but that I’m involved somehow. I think they know that I know more than I’m saying.”

The silence that follows seems to echo through the length of the kitchen, from one end to the other, engulfing them in its wave as it passes by. Reiner pauses, uncertain; but Bertholdt remains quiet, his knuckles white as he clenches his hands against the countertop. Reiner watches him for a moment, but soon he finds his patience wearing. He drums his hands against the edge of the counter.

“But what happened?” he asks. “What did they want? What did they ask you?”

Bertholdt sighs, and he reaches up to rub the creases in his forehead. “When I had my first interview,” he starts, “they asked me some questions that I wasn’t really prepared for. You know, we got our story straight beforehand and we knew what we were going to say, but they asked me for details. They wanted to know really specific stuff, and I just had to make it up on the spot. I didn’t think it would matter, because there wasn’t any reason to suspect me of anything, except…”

“Except you’re a shit liar,” Reiner says bluntly.

Bertholdt glances up at him, his lips curling together. “I’m fine when I’m prepared,” he mutters. He sighs and glances away again. “But they put me on the spot, and I guess I got some details mixed up.”

“So they know that you lied?” Reiner exclaims. “They know that we lied?”

“Well, that’s why they called me back in,” Bertholdt says. “I was the one who got my story mixed up. So, they took me in for the second interview, and they asked me all the same questions. They wanted to get me to repeat the same story to see if it was really true, I guess, and I remembered most of what I said, but not everything.

“And then they asked me why I had lied in my first interview,” he continues. “I tried to act dumb, like I was just forgetful or something, but they didn’t really buy that, so…”

When he hesitates, Reiner blinks at him. “So what?” he exclaims. “What did you say?”

“Don’t get mad,” Bertholdt says.

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I had to make up another story on the spot,” Bertholdt continues, “one that would gives us another alibi and explain why we lied in the first place.”

“Christ.”

“And I had to come up with it right there, so if it’s not very good, then-”

“ _Jesus_ , Bertholdt, what did you say?”

“I said that we snuck out on Sunday night to smoke in the gardens,” he says. “It’s dumb, but it’s the only thing I could think of.”

Reiner furrows his brow. “And… they believed that?”

“I think so,” Bertholdt mutters. “I mean, I said a bunch of stuff about how we didn’t want to get in trouble, because you’re only a demerit or two away from getting expelled, so obviously we had to lie about what we were doing and… well, I don’t think it’s unreasonable.”

“ _Please, officer, we’re just two dumb kids who don’t understand the gravity of this situation, just don’t rat us out to the dean_?”

Bertholdt sighs. “Yeah, something like that.”

Reiner pauses, drumming his fingers against the counter. “Well,” he says after a moment, “I guess it could have been worse.”

Another moment of silence passes as Bertholdt stares down at the floor, chewing his lip. Outside, a pair of footsteps sounds; Reiner freezes when a shadow passes the kitchen door, momentarily blocking out the yellow light that streams in through the small window, but the shadow moves on and silence falls again. Bertholdt glances up at him and sighs.

“I guess we could try again tomorrow,” he says, his eyes pensive. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the dean will be out again. Not that luck is really our forte, but…”

“Oh,” Reiner exclaims. “I didn’t tell you.”

He reaches to the counter behind himself, where he dropped his schoolbooks and carefully pulls the folder out from between the books. Bertholdt’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head.

“Is that-?” he exclaims, but he stops himself short, instead launching himself across the kitchen to get a look at the folder up close.

“Annie’s student records,” Reiner confirms. He holds the folder aloft with two hands, judging the weight. “This was the only thing I could find with her name on it, but it’s pretty hefty. It’s possible I accidentally grabbed someone’s else records too.”

“Reiner.”

“But the important thing,” he says, turning to face Bertholdt, “is that we have Annie’s files now.”

He holds the folder out. “Want to read it?”

Bertholdt rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. “No, I want to go to bed and forget about this whole day,” he says miserably. Still, he eyes the folder in Reiner’s hands. “Is there anything good in there?”

Reiner drops the folder onto the counter, where it falls with a thud, and flips through it, the pages whirling as they flap up and down. “I thought there might be,” he says, “because, I mean, look at it, it’s massive. But it’s just the same kind of shit that everyone has in their folder, I think. It’s just records of grades and detentions and stuff. I dunno why she wants this so badly.”

Bertholdt yawns, turning away. “Then, no,” he says, “I don’t want to read it.”

Reiner flips back to the first page, the one with Annie’s solemn ID photo taped neatly into the top corner. He scans the page. “She was born in Tenneesse, did you know that? I always thought she was from Georgia. Oh, well, her parents live in Georgia, at least her dad does. Look, _Rebecca Leonhardt D’Arcy, mother of student, died 1941._ ”

“This is fascinating,” Bertholdt says drily, “but the less I know about Annie right now, the better.”

Reiner smirks. “You used to have a crush on her.”

Bertholdt flushes. “…shut up.”

“Come on, I’m playing.” He flips to the next page. He read most of this already, but he can’t keep from reading it again. “Did you know her dad practically owns a whiskey empire?”

Bertholdt turns back to face him, his brow furrowed. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah, there’s a letter of commendation in here from some guy that works her dad. Man, I’ve heard of this brand, but I never knew it was-”

“Back up,” Bertholdt exclaims, sidling up next to him. He leans over the counter, peering at the folder intently. “That can’t be a coincidence.”

Reiner glances at him. “What?”

Bertholdt reaches across him to flip back to the first page. “Look,” he says, tapping a finger on the page, right next to Annie’s mother’s name. “Rebecca _Leonhardt_ D’Arcy.”

“Uh, okay.”

“And her dad’s a big cat in the whiskey business!” Bertholdt exclaims. “Reiner, come on.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Reiner exclaims. “What do either of those things have to do with each other?”

“Are you serious? You’ve never heard of Lion Heart?”

Reiner stares at him. “What the hell is Lion Heart?”

“Not a what,” Bertholdt insists. “A who.”

He flips back to the second page of the folder, scanning the page, then flips again. “Lion Heart was a big moonshine producer in the twenties,” he says as he reads. “He was the king of bootlegging, and the Feds never caught him. He’s a legend.”

Reiner pauses, watching him. “Okay, so what?” he says. “That was thirty years ago.”

“Well, no one really knows what happened to him,” Bertholdt continues. “Most people think that he got into the whiskey business legally once the prohibition ended. It was a big conspiracy theory in my town. People used to try and guess which big distillery Lion Heart is running today.”

“Why the hell do you know this?”

Bertholdt closes the folder. “You would know this too if you grew up in Appalachia. Moonshine is still a big business there, even today.”

Reiner leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. “Okay, and this is all relevant because…?”

“Well, don’t you see?” Bertholdt exclaims, flipping the folder open again. “Annie’s mother’s maiden name was _Leonhardt_. It sounds a lot like Lion Heart to me, and now Annie’s dad is one of the top guys in whiskey? Come on, that’s too weird to be a coincidence.”

“You think Annie’s dad is this Lion Heart guy?” Reiner exclaims.

“He certainly knows the business,” Bertholdt says. “And Lion Heart is a reasonable alias for someone married to a Leonhardt, right? It’s personal, but still anonymous.”

“You’re a conspiracy theorist.”

“I’m _right_.”

“The Feds couldn’t catch this guy for thirty years, and you think you’ve found him in thirty seconds?”

“Can I have my moment please?” Bertholdt says. He closes the folder again and turns to lean back against the counter. “I’ve had a pretty awful day.”

Reiner purses his lips. “I don’t know about all this Lion Heart stuff,” he says, glancing sideways at Bertholdt, “but if it’s true, then maybe that’s why she’s leaving.”

Bertholdt looks up at him. “How do you mean?”

“Well, it sounds like a family business,” Reiner says. “Maybe she wants out. Maybe she’s not suited for the moonshine life.”

“If I’m right, then it’s a whiskey life now.” Bertholdt sighs. “But that could make sense. It’s a business built on blood. Lion Heart was connected to a dozen murders.”

“Jesus, Bert, you mention that now?”

“Sorry, I got caught up in-”

“-in your conspiracy theories.”

Bertholdt stands up straight, rolling his sleeves down. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he mumbles. He glances down at his watch. “We should get going, if we’re going to give that to her tonight. It’ll be curfew soon.”

They track Annie down in the library, sitting alone in a dimly lit corner. She does not look up from her book as they approach, but their footsteps echo against the hardwood. Reiner drops the folder onto the desk before her with a thud. She glances up.

“Is that it?” she asks.

Reiner furrows his brow. “Are you asking if that’s your file, or if that’s all we have?”

She reaches for the folder, a streak of blonde hair falling in front of her face. The yellow reflection from the nearby lamp dances across her frame as she pulls the folder towards herself across the desk and quietly opens to the first page. Another beat of silence passes as she examines the page, and Reiner is about to walk out when she looks up again.

“The second one,” Annie says, staring up at them. “Is that it?”

Reiner raises an eyebrow. “Were you expecting more?”

“I wasn’t sure what to expect,” she says, but the cool tone in her voice betrays the lies. Reiner rolls his eyes. He is almost positive that she could have done this herself without any hassle; after all, she escapes notice most of the day. It would be easy for her to slip about the school undetected.

“Well, that’s what we found,” he says. “Everything with your name on it.”

Behind him, Bertholdt fidgets.

Annie pulls a random sheet out of the folder. “This is Mina’s grade report from last year.”

Reiner shrugs. “Yeah, there might be some, uh, extra stuff in there. I was trying to be thorough.”

She sets the sheet aside and closes the folder. “Alright,” she says. “You kept your end of the bargain, I’ll keep mine.”

Reiner can almost feel the relief that pours from Bertholdt, who instantly sags and stumbles away, as eager as possible to get the hell out of there. But Reiner hesitates. He didn’t care so much at first, when Annie told them why she wanted her files. It didn’t matter to him, as long as they got what they wanted out of it. But Bertholdt’s theory, as crazy as it might be, has struck a note with him and he cannot get the idea out of his head. What is she running away from?

Annie glances up at him. “I trust you two can keep your silence,” she says.

Reiner purses his lips. “Yeah. Of course.”

“Even if those detectives start poking around about this?”

He blinks. He feels Bertholdt freeze behind him. “What do you mean?” he asks. “No one’s going to notice that your records are missing, at least not for a while. We’ll all be gone for summer by then.”

“I told you,” Annie says, turning back to her book. “I’m leaving.”

Silence lingers in the air.

“Leaving…” Bertholdt starts, then stops. He glances at Reiner, then back to Annie. “Leaving now?”

“Leaving soon,” she says.

“You’re leaving from Trost,” Reiner exclaims. “You’re running away before the semester ends, before you have to go home.”

Her lips twitch at his words. The phrase _running away_ hits a nerve with her, but he doesn’t have a chance to figure out why before she’s talking again.

“Why else would I need my records?” she says. She flips a page in her book: idle. “There isn’t going to be a trace of me left at this school after I’m gone. That includes any traces of this exchange, but I guess you wouldn’t want the police to know about this anyways.”

“Wait,” Reiner exclaims, holding out a hand. “Annie, you can’t leave _now_. There’s a massive missing persons investigation going on.”

She pushes her bangs back and stares at him. “So?”

“So,” he continues, “if you just disappear like that, they’re gonna think… I don’t know, they’re gonna think there’s some kind of mass abduction happening.”

“Like I said,” Annie says, her gaze cool, “I don’t have a dog in this fight. I have nothing to do with whatever is happening here, or whatever is going to happen here. I’m leaving, bottom line.”

She returns to her book. Reiner drops his hand, staring at her, but he can see there’s no point in arguing. He feels Bertholdt come up behind him.

“It’s nearly curfew,” Bertholdt says quietly. “We should get back to the dorms.”

Reiner sighs, rubbing his forehead. “Yeah, alright.”

The corridors are hollow and silent as Reiner and Bertholdt trudge back to the dormitories. The clouds have returned, and they enshroud the moon in their mist, blocking out all light. The hallways are lit only by dim, yellow lamps, but Reiner still squints in the dark to see where he’s going. Bertholdt says nothing about the exchange that just happened, and neither does Reiner. He is still processing it, and what it means for them; but he can tell with one glance that Bertholdt is too tired, too exhausted to think anything at all. They walk in silence, their footsteps the only sounds that echo through the long, dark hallways.

Reiner shoves his hands in his pockets, chewing on his lips as he thinks. One of his fingers touches something cool, and he nearly stops walking when he realizes what it is. He’d forgotten. He’d grabbed it this morning, impulsively, after they had gotten back from the sunrise service. He supposes he had been feeling emotional or religious or something. The pin grows warm in his grip, and he drops it back into the depths of his pocket, his fingers sweating. He thinks back to Annie, to Annie leaving, to Annie’s father: something, anything, to forget what he just found in his pocket.

They round the corner, and Reiner freezes.

There, at the end of the hallway, illuminated only by a dim wall light, stands Marco.

He’s drenched. From head to toe, his clothes are soaked. Water drips from his frame, and the navy cardigan with Trost’s symbol emblazoned on the breast hangs heavily from his shoulders, its thick material weighed down with water. His shoes stand in puddles. His pockets bulge with stones. A streak of red runs down the pale, clammy skin of his neck and bleeds into the collar of his shirt; the stain blooms, spreading down from the collar, bleeding across his shoulders, dripping onto his cardigan, onto the empty patch where _it_ should be-

Reiner’s heart catches in his throat. He can’t breathe. He feels an incredible urge to look up, to look Marco in the face, but he can’t, oh god, he resists, his body trembling as he clenches a hand to his mouth and closes his eyes, oh god, oh _God_ -

“Reiner?”

He opens his eyes.

The first thing he sees is the light. It glows like a halo in his blurred vision. His gaze dances around his field of vision, searching for something to lock onto, and finally he catches Bertholdt’s face: Bertholdt’s perturbed, worried face.

Bertholdt waves a hand before him, and Reiner blinks, stumbling backwards.

“Sorry,” Bertholdt exclaims, his eyes wide. “You looked like you were out for a minute there.”

Reiner pushes a hand back through his hair, then turns his gaze down the hallway. It is empty. The light at the end is already out.

“Are you okay?” Bertholdt asks.

“I’m just tired,” Reiner hears himself say. “Come on, let’s go.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the investigation continues, the students at Trost are left wondering about the fate of their school.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i revised this chapter in a fever dream so please tell me if there are any glaring errors

“Way Down We Go” by Kaleo

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/G2KB/)

“We get what we deserve.”

\--

Friday comes in a drowsy haze. If the sky was grey yesterday, then today it must be black. Clouds linger low over the valley, promising rain but never following through. The suspense of a downfall echoes through the tense wait that Trost is enduring over the last few days. The police cars have become a constant fixture in the school’s drive, and their number increases everyday. The search has grown increasingly desperate, as news of the disappearance has traveled home to parents, and the police have multiplied their efforts. Hounds scout the nearby woods, with officers quick in their wake. And yet there is nothing. No clue has been found, no evidence uncovered, and no sign of the missing student. When the investigation began, the detectives were adamant that this was another runaway case. But days have passed, and Marco Bodt has not returned. With every hour that fades by, the general feeling grows that this is nothing but foul play.

When dawn rises, the sun’s light weak through the thick cloud cover, Reiner lies awake in his bed. He hardly slept the night before; the nightmare still lingers in his mind. He can’t put a name to it: a ghost? a demon? a hallucination? Bertholdt saw nothing in that dark, empty hallway, but Reiner saw him very clearly. He could hear the water drip from his fingertips and feel the weight of the stones in his pockets. To say that he is shaken would be a gross understatement. He is jarred.

The weight of the investigation hangs heavily across the school. There is an overwhelming sense of hopelessness that lingers in every corner. The dining hall is even quieter during breakfast, and when students break for the first class of the day, they trudge through the corridor with long faces and dragging feet. Bertholdt and Reiner are some of the last students to stumble out of the dining hall, their books tucked around their arms. Bertholdt is pale, as usual, and quiet. Yesterday Reiner would have commented on it or made fun of him. Today he is the same. He feels painfully, silently aware of everything that is happening around him; every footstep and whisper keeps him awake, keeps his eyes glancing around the room and his heart ready to leap into his throat. He doesn’t know how Bertholdt does it.

They say nothing as they shuffle out the door, following the rest of the students to class. As soon as they round the corner, however, Bertholdt stops dead in his tracks, Reiner not too far behind him. There, searching the line of weary students, stands Officer Ral. She looks tired- no, exhausted. The search has surely kept the police on their toes, and she cradles a stack of uneven folders in her arms, constantly heaving them up again to keep hold of them.

“There you are, Braun,” she says, immediately straightening up. She gestures in the direction of the front corridor with her head. “Come on, Levi want to see you before class.”

She starts to turn, beckoning him away with a glance much less friendly than the one used for Bertholdt yesterday. Reiner looks sideways at Bertholdt, whose face has gone stark white.

Reiner gives him a mock salute as he stars off after Ral. “Remember me,” he says.

Bertholdt’s eyes widen. “That’s not funny,” he breathes.

“I’m kidding.” Reiner is led away. “See you in class.”

Bertholdt is right: it’s not funny. But it’s not like they don’t know what this is about, or that they shouldn’t have been expecting it. Of course he’s going to be re-interviewed, or at least given a talking to. After all, the police know now that he lied to them in his first interview; not only that, but he and Bertholdt conspired to lie to them together. It’s a right mess they’ve gotten themselves into, but if they play their cards right, then they can get out of it. He’s just got to keep up the dumb teenager act.

When they reach the detectives’ office, Levi is waiting for them. The scene is so similar to his first interview that Reiner has to blink and take a second look. The stacks of papers and folders on the table remain, but they’ve increased, if not doubled, and a set of empty coffee mugs line the edge of the table, leaving rings. Levi doesn’t look any different: still tired and annoyed. He glances up when Officer Ral knocks at the open door before leading Reiner inside.

“I brought him,” Ral says, then dumps the stack of folders in her hands onto the table. “And these as well.”

“Thanks Petra,” Levi grumbles, turning back to the array of notes spread out before him. She nods, turning to pass Reiner on her way out of the room. He is left lingering in the doorway before Levi finally looks up at him. His eyes dance over Reiner’s face for a moment, his brow as furrowed as ever, his gaze just as hard as before.

“Sit down,” he says.

The room suddenly feels much smaller. Reiner thought they could get away with this- he’s thought that since it happened, since the detectives first came. He’s been so good about it, so calm when Bertholdt has panicked, so composed when he needed to be. Suddenly, though, his composure is gone and his heart races as he steps tepidly towards the table, slowly taking his seat. Suddenly he remembers everything, knows exactly what he’s here for, knows exactly what’s going to happen next, and he wonders why- but the image burns in his mind and he vanishes it as fast as possible, his mouth going dry. That’s- how could he have forgotten? There was a moment there, when the investigation started, that he must have lost his mind, because he knows that he lied his way through his first interview but he doesn’t remember how, it’s like he’s been gone this whole time and-

His reverie is crushed short when Levi slaps a folder down onto the table. Reiner winces.

“Do you have something to say for yourself, Braun?” the detective asks.

He’s sitting back in his chair, one hand drumming on the edge of the table, the other dropped to his side, but even his cool posture does not hide the edge in his voice. Reiner opens his mouth to explain, to say what Bertholdt said, but he finds his mind running blank and he stops.

Levi raises an eyebrow. “Nothing?”

Reiner swallows. “Uh, sir-”

“The police don’t appreciate being lied to,” Levi says, cutting him off again. “Especially by a stuck-up brat.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” Reiner finally says. “Bertholdt explained, didn’t he? We just didn’t want to get in trouble because smoking’s not allowed on school grounds, and, I mean, if I get one more demerit, my parents would kill me.”

“Then you’d better hope they don’t find out that you lied to the police,” Levi says. He stares at Reiner for another moment, then sits up straight in his chair and looks back to the folder before him. “Get out of here, Braun.”

Reiner freezes. “…that’s it?”

“I told you to get out, didn’t I?”

“But you’re not going to interview me again?”

Levi looks up at him. “Should I?”

Reiner pauses. “Uh, no, sir.”

“Then get back to class. God knows you could use some education.”

Reiner turns on his heel. His hand is on the doorknob when suddenly he stops. He glances over his shoulder. The detective is still at the desk, leaning back in his chair as he reads through a file. There’s a moment of silence, and then he looks up. Reiner knows he should leave, but he drops his hand and turns back around to face the detective.

“What now?” Levi asks.

He shouldn’t ask. After everything that he just went through, after getting let off like that: the first time, and now this time. Thank God the detectives are still convinced it’s a runaway case, because if they are investigating for foul play, things may not have turned out like this. He should just drop it, just leave his questions hanging in the air, and strike out the door away from this room. But there’s a compulsive need to _know_ that races through him and plagues his mind. It’s the same anxious feeling that he got when he came into this room. Ever since last night- he blinks- he just needs to know something, and he needs to hear the detective say it to his face.

“Sir,” he starts before he can stop himself. “Have you found anything?”

Levi looks at him. Reiner doesn’t like it at all, those dark eyes tracing over his face; the detective’s gaze is unreadable, and for a silent moment, Reiner wonders if he’s just thrown away all their luck. Then Levi purses his lips.

“How many times do I have to tell you kids?” he says, looking back to his file. He flips a page. “Your dean will tell you if there’s anything you need to know.”

“But the dean hasn’t told us anything.”

“Then I guess there’s nothing you need to know.”

“Marco was our friend, sir,” Reiner insists. “Everyone’s worried. They just want to know something, anything.

Levi looks up at him again, but his face is now half-hidden by the folder in his hands. Reiner can only see his searching eyes. It unnerves him. He wishes he hadn’t asked. But he waits; for a moment, he really thinks Levi might tell him something. But Levi just goes back to his folder.

“Your dean will tell you if there’s anything you need to know,” he says. “Now go to class, Braun.”

\--

He can’t decide if he’s lucky, or if this is all a trap.

A part of him feels like he’s going to turn a corner and an array of police officers will be blocking his way, waiting to arrest him. He feels as though, at any moment, it’s all going to be over, and he’s never going to know what hit him. This is what races through his mind during the morning lessons. He remains alert: awake and cautious. He knows he’s being stupid; the police don’t know, they _can’t_ know. If they do know, then why haven’t they-?

But he also knows that he’s not being stupid. Who did he think he was? Did he think he could outsmart the police? Annie figured it out, or at least some of it. Who’s to say that no one else knows?

He is being stupid though. He’s kept himself under control so far; he doesn’t know how, but he did it. Even Bertholdt seems to be keeping it together now. Reiner watches him in the hall during their midmorning break between classes. He’s quiet, maybe quieter than usual, but no one seems to notice. They’re all rather quiet as of late. Reiner wonders what he should say to Bertholdt, if he should say anything at all: _hey, sorry I forgot about the crime that we committed together, but in my defense, that’s probably the only reason we’ve held out for this long against the police_. He can’t say that. Maybe he should just keep his mouth shut.

The dining hall is solemn and heavy again during lunch. The juniors sit across their long table, stirring their pea soup and idly tearing up slices of bread. No one has much of an appetite. The hall is dark, any sunlight blocked out by the grey clouds that hang over the sky. The only light comes from the dim bulbs overhead, and the students sit quietly under the small circles of light, glancing at each other but hardly speaking. Across from Reiner, Bertholdt seems lost in thought. He stares at a fixed spot on the table, his chin in his hand, and he barely notices when Sasha approaches the table and flops down.

“I just talked to some of the seniors,” she says. The other students immediately look up at her, their silent reverie broken. Sasha glances around at them. “They’re saying the school might close. Do you think that’s true?”

“Close the school?” Historia exclaims from the other end of the table. She bolts upright, her spoon falling from her hand and clattering against the table. “They can’t do that.”

“That just sounds like gossip,” Ymir says.

Sasha furrows her brow. “What makes you so sure?”

“The police haven’t found anything,” Ymir mutters, dunking a scrap of bread into her soap. She stirs it around but doesn’t eat it. “How can they justify closing the school when they have no idea what happened?”

“Maybe that’s justification enough,” Armin says from across the table. Glances swivel around to him, and he looks up at his peers. “Finding nothing is almost as indicative as finding something. And if word has gotten out to parents about this, then, well…”

“And you heard what Mikasa said,” Connie chimes in. He gestures with his spoon at Mikasa, who remains unfazed, her gaze flicking back and forth between speakers. “The police always assume it’s a runaway case. Just because they haven’t found anything doesn’t mean-”

“But closing the school?” Historia exclaims again. She shakes her head. “I don’t believe it.”

“I don’t think there’s much use in gossiping,” Bertholdt suddenly says. Reiner starts and glances across at him, but he is not the only one surprised. The rest of the table falls silent, their eyes turning down to the end of the line where Bertholdt sits, still staring at nothing. When he says nothing else, their uneasy glances turn away.

“He’s right,” Armin says after a moment. “We don’t know anything for certain.”

“We don’t know anything at all,” Jean mumbles from the middle of the table.

“But the police aren’t going to tell us anything,” Eren says. “Why shouldn’t we figure it out on our own?”

Armin opens his mouth to say something, but he’s cut off.

“Maybe he really did run away,” Jean says. His spoon lies clean by his bowl of lukewarm soup. He sits slumped forward over the table, his hands crossed, his gaze unfixed. Reiner watches him from the end of the table, but it makes him uneasy. He turns away.

“Maybe he really did leave- us,” Jean says.

He says _us,_ but everyone hears the unspoken _me_.

“They haven’t found anything,” he continues. “They’ve been here for days and they haven’t found any sign of him. I mean, what could have-”

He cuts himself short, stopping suddenly. He says nothing else, his breath caught in his throat as he stares across the table, out the window, and into the deep grey sky.

Silence falls again.

Lunch ends with the chime of the chapel bell ringing once over the campus. The grounds of the school seem hollow and empty in the absence of the usual rambunctious chatter, and the bell seem to ring louder. The dour mood has turned even the most obnoxious students taciturn. Reiner thinks the teachers must be grateful for a change from the usual troublemaking. Trost is, after all, a school for misfits and truants. But the spirits of the faculty are dampened too, and perhaps the most of well. Marco was a good student. He became Trost’s best example of how a student can turn their life around with a little discipline. Of all the students to vanish, it had to be him.

Bertholdt insists on doing homework during Friday’s free afternoon. Reiner wonders what the point is anymore. If the school is going to close, why bother? But he drags his books and papers to the common room anyways, determined to keep up and keep a routine. The room is so quiet though. He has not spent much time in here since… last week. The common room is usually the liveliest place on school grounds, perhaps save the athletic fields. On most afternoons, the radio would be playing: music or baseball or even just the news. Freshmen would be gathered in the corners, grumbling over their assignments, and seniors would be passing the afternoon with a game of chess. That used to be a favorite game of his. He was getting better, though he still was not good enough to beat Armin or Bertholdt. He did win his last game, though. In his last game, he played against-

Reiner abruptly drops his pen.

Bertholdt glances up.

Their desk sits in a secluded corner of the common room, across the wall from the chess tables, beneath a clouded window with an array of potted plants set on the sill. Over Bertholdt’s shoulder, Reiner watches someone poke at the fireplace. As grey as the weather may be, it’s not cold at all; but the weather has everyone in some sort of mood, and a junior staff member has insisted on tending fires in every occupied room, maybe to distract themselves. Reiner loses his focus for another moment, his eyes scanning over the room, but Bertholdt’s fixed gaze on him draws him back to their table.

“Are you alright?” Bertholdt asks, his voice low.

He hovers over his books, his chin in one hand. The other idly twirls a pencil.

Reiner nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m fine.”

He wonders if he should say something, or if Bertholdt is going to ask. He can’t imagine that Bertholdt _won’t_ ask. But to his surprise, Bertholdt just nods and goes back to his book. Reiner can tell that he’s not really focusing; his eyes have been fixed on the same spot of the page since they sat down.

“Aren’t you going to ask me?” Reiner murmurs, leaning in.

Bertholdt doesn’t look up, but his gaze fidgets across the page. “About what?”

Reiner stares at him. “About my interview. What else?”

Bertholdt glances up, a look of irritated flashing across his face before he draws in a calming breath and glances over his shoulder. Students are couched across the room, near the fireplace, near the chess tables. He turns back to Reiner, his lips pursed. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about this stuff here,” he mutters.

Reiner glances around. No one is paying mind to them, but no one is too engaged in their own activities either. Everyone is lost today.

“You’re right,” he says, turning back to Bertholdt. “But I don’t really have much to say. It was fine.”

Bertholdt raises an eyebrow. “It was fine?” he repeats.

Reiner swallows. “Yeah, it was fine. It wasn’t even a real interview.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

Reiner blinks. “What? I’m not lying.”

“You’ve been acting weird all day,” Bertholdt mutters. “Or- I don’t know, weird isn’t the right word. You seem more like yourself than you have recently, but something’s still different. It’s like you know something- like you know something that I don’t.”

A ghost flashes through Reiner’s mind. He cracks his knuckles to distract himself. “I’ve been thinking a lot,” he says quietly.

“About what?”

“You know.”

At that, Bertholdt shifts in his seat. His eyes flicker away, out the window, back to his book, and across the table: anywhere but on Reiner. His grip tightens on the pencil in his hand, and finally he drops his head back to his book, hunching his shoulders together.

“We don’t need to talk about this here,” he mutters.

“Fine,” Reiner says, “we’ll talk about it tonight-”

“We don’t need to talk about it at all,” Bertholdt hisses.

Reiner blinks. “What? Bertholdt-”

“Reiner, I’m tired,” Bertholdt says. He doesn’t look up. “Please, just drop it.”

He doesn’t want to let it go, but Bertholdt refuses to look up at him, bent over his book in concentration; whether that concentration is real or feigned, Reiner can’t say. But he knows Bertholdt isn’t going to talk to him, at least not now. He glances out the window, but the fields below are just grey and damp. He watches for a moment; then he sighs and cracks open a notebook.

\--

By dinnertime, the grey skies have cleared, at least enough for the dying sunlight to peer through the clouds. The change in weather lifts spirits in the school, if only for a brief moment. The dining hall is active again during dinner; students plan their Friday evenings and talk about their weekends as if, for a moment, they have forgotten the miserable mystery that had pervaded the school all week. Somehow there is hope in the weekend. Reiner finds his spirits lifted as well, perhaps only because it’s hard to remain miserable when the people around him are suddenly brighter.

Bertholdt sulks off to the library promptly after dinner is over. Reiner knows he should too; after all, they’ve hardly done any homework all week. But he feels restless, still vigilantly aware of everything happening around him, and he follows a wave of students to the common room where they fall into their usual patterns of chess and cards. He drops onto a couch by the fireplace, unsure of what else to do, but only a few seconds have passed before Connie bounds into the common room and immediately springs up to him.

“We’re going to play some tennis,” Connie says. He gestures over his shoulder at Jean, who lingers in the doorway, carrying an armful of rackets. “We just really need to hit something. Want to come?”

They don’t play for long. The sun has come out, but it’s going down fast, and any revitalized energy they had earlier is drained by the end of the second set. It’s a dismal match anyways. Connie is much better at tennis than Reiner and Jean combined; he wins every game but one. If they had finished their seats, he would have won the match. Reiner plays competitively enough that it’s not a total beat down; but Jean’s head isn’t in the game at all, and they lose despite what could have been a valiant effort. The air is thick with water; Reiner finds himself wiping sweat from his brow, even though they’ve hardly played that much. Connie crosses the court to where Reiner and Jean have retired at the baseline, rubbing their eyes and yawning.

Jean sighs when Connie approaches. “Sorry,” he mutters. “It was a good game, I’m just, you know…”

He trails off.

Connie shrugs, twirling his racket in his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m tired, too. Anyways, it’ll be curfew soon.”

“We should get back,” Reiner muses.

None of them move. The air hangs heavily over their tired bodies, but even more than that is the profound silence in which they linger. The evening is quiet: just a sinking sunset over the empty valley. They linger for another moment, not looking at each other. Reiner stares at the worn tennis racket in his hands, taciturn. He can feel that they want to say something, that they have unanswered questions or feelings, but he silently wills them not to say anything. Yesterday he would have been there for them; he would have known exactly what to say. Today he just hopes that they will keep their thoughts to themselves.

“We should go,” Jean says, breaking the silence. But his voice cracks on the last word, and he swallows immediately, turning his face. Reiner says nothing; Connie shifts awkwardly, glancing between them in the silence that follows.

Jean clears his throat. “Sorry,” he mutters, turning back to them. “Sorry, I just…”

He trails off again.

“It’s just, you know, I don’t know what to believe,” he says. He glances down at the racket in his hand and twists it back and forth through his palm as he talks. “He wouldn’t run away, he just wouldn’t do that, but…”

He swallows. “But if he didn’t run away, that means…”

_Something must have happened_.

The thought lingers in the air even though Jean doesn’t put it into words, and Reiner’s stomach lurches at the thought. The silence hangs between them, no one willing to address the question left unanswered. Connie gets increasingly restless, rolling a ball between his hands. Finally, he turns, giving one last toss and swing. The ball flies low over the ground, straight into the net. It drops and starts to roll back to them. He drops his racket to his side.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “We should get back.”

The sun has sunk halfway beneath the forest as they trudge back towards the school, their tennis rackets hanging limply at their sides. Reiner walks in the back, pensive. They’re nearly to the steps when he suddenly catches a whiff of smoke and stops in the gravel, furrowing his brow. He glances around; his gaze travels naturally across the long side of the building, following the brick foundation, and stops just at the corner, where he spies the orange reflection of low flames playing on the gravel from the other side of the building. He frowns.

“I’ll catch up,” he calls as he starts off towards the fire. Jean and Connie turn, but he ignores them, his feet crunching along the gravel path as he walks. Before he even comes to the little bonfire, he realizes. It’s Annie. Of course it’s Annie. It has to be Annie, he thinks, suddenly irritated, who else would be burning something outside ten minutes before curfew? She hasn’t even bothered to be subtle about it.

He rounds the corner and stops. Annie is crouched a few feet away, sitting on her heels in the dirt, a stack of papers in her hands. The fire reflects across her face. For a moment, Reiner hopes that she hasn’t seen him or heard him. He wonders if she lied to them, how much she lied to them; if it was too risky to break into the office and get her files herself, then it’s just as risky setting those files on fire on school grounds, right outside the school no less. But he lets it go. It’s been done, and he doesn’t need anything else to worry about. He means to let it all go, to turn around and head up the stairs, go inside, and leave Annie alone. But something is still bothering him, and if she’s burning the files, then she must be leaving soon: very soon. He crosses slowly along the side of the building until the comes to the spot in the dirt where Annie sits.

“We could have done that for you,” he says. He’s half kidding. Annie glances sideways at his shoes, but she does not look up at him.

“Look who it is,” she says. “You might want to get inside, Braun. It’s almost curfew. Who knows what those detectives will think if they catch you out here?”

Reiner sighs. “What are you doing, Annie?” he asks, fidgeting with his tennis racket. “You’re not exactly being subtle.”

She pokes at the small fire with a stick. “The police don’t start their evening rotations until sundown. I’ve got fifteen minutes.”

He furrows his brow. “Rotations?”

Annie glances up at him for the first time. Her eyes are quizzical for a moment as she judges his words; then her face shifts and she scoffs. “You didn’t even know they were doing rounds,” she says. “Unbelievable.”

“I knew the teachers were doing rounds, but…”

He trails off. There’s no point in arguing with her. He taps his tennis racket against his leg, watching Annie. “How do you know when the police do their rounds?”

“I pay attention,” she says simply.

Reiner sighs again.

Annie tosses another paper onto the fire. Gold sparks fly into the air, the papers sizzling in the flames. Reiner watches the paper burn, and he catches a glimpse of something familiar: her student ID photo. Her piercing eyes stare up at him as the paper shrivels up into crumbling ash. Before long, it is gone.

Reiner purses his lips. “Can I sit?” he asks.

The look that Annie gives him is so incredulously offended that he nearly just walks away. But she throws another page onto the page, turning her face, and says, “Whatever.”

He takes that as the best invitation he’s going to get. He clambers down onto the ground next to Annie, setting his tennis racket to the side. The fire crackles before them. The heat outside is drenching, and the fire does not help. He watches in silence for a moment as Annie pokes at the burning pile of crumbling papers. She glances up at him over the flames.

“Haven’t you had enough of me?” she asks.

She’s right on the mark; she hasn’t exactly endeared herself to him over the past few days. Still, he feels unsettled about her involvement in all of this. There’s something unsaid that’s bothering him, and if he lets her get away without asking, he’ll never get answers.

“Lion Heart,” he exclaims before he loses his will. “Lion Heart was your mother.”

Annie looks up at him. Her face hardly changes but for a quirk in her brow, but he gets the feeling he’s genuinely surprised her.

“Good guess,” she says. “I didn’t expect you to figure that out.”

“I didn’t,” Reiner says. “Bertholdt did.”

She says nothing to that.

“Is that…” He trails off, struggling to find the words. He doesn’t know quite what he wants to ask; he just wants to know the truth. He picks up the tennis racket again and rolls it through his hands, fidgeting.

“Is that why you’re leaving?” he finally asks. “I mean, does it have something to do with all this… whiskey business?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Annie asks.

Reiner drops the tennis racket back onto the ground. “I don’t know, Annie, I’m just trying to piece this all together. Just tell me why you’re leaving, because I don’t get it.”

“What is there for you to _get_?” Annie says, stabbing at the fire. “As far as I’m concerned, we should have parted ways by now.”

“You haven’t explained why you’re running away,” he says. “It must have something to do with your mother, or Lion Heart, or whatever, because that connection was in your files, that’s why you wanted to destroy them.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with my mother,” Annie says, visibly irritated.

“Then what?” Reiner exclaims. “Because-”

“I told you-”

“You haven’t really explained,” Reiner insists. “Just tell me why you’re leaving.”

“Tell me what happened to Marco,” she says.

Reiner freezes. “What?”

The fire crackles between them. Annie’s face glows above the flickers of the flame as she stares across at Reiner, her eyes alight.

“Tell me what happened to Marco,” she says, “and I’ll tell you why I’m really leaving.”

His mind runs blank.

“It-” he starts, but he cuts himself off.

Annie stares at him, her gaze intense, and Reiner looks away to the fire that sits between them. He can’t think, he can’t- His mind races, but he still comes up blank.

“I don’t know,” he says. His heart pounds.

“Do you expect me to believe that?”

“We just saw something,” Reiner says. He glances back up at her; her face is solemn, her gaze still fixed on him, but he can’t tell what she’s thinking. “We think we saw something that night.”

Annie watches him for a moment, her expression unchanged; then she raises an eyebrow. “But you’re hiding it from the police,” she says.

Reiner hesitates. “We weren’t supposed to be there. We shouldn’t have been there that night, so we can’t…”

He trails off again. He doesn’t know what hell he’s saying, and he can’t tell if Annie is convinced or not. She pokes around the fire with her stick, quiet for a moment, then sits back and looks up at him. Her lips are pursed, her eyes narrowed, and she stares at him for a moment before speaking again.

“It doesn’t have anything to do with my mother,” she says.

Reiner furrows his brow. “What?”

“I’m telling you,” she says. “It doesn’t have anything to do with my mother.”

“But I thought Lion Heart-”

“Lion Heart was my mother,” she says, looking back to the fire. “You were right about that. But that’s not why I’m leaving, not really.”

“Then why?” Reiner exclaims.

A moment of silence passes as Annie stares into the fire, pursing her lips. The flames reflect across her face, in her eyes, and then she speaks.

“You’ve heard the rumors about Lion Heart,” she says.

Reiner shrugs. “Bertholdt told me some stories.”

“Then you’ve heard that she was suspected of a string of murders in Appalachia,” Annie says.

“Did she do it?”

Annie shakes her head. “No. The victims were all part of her competition: other bootleggers, other distributors, some rumrunners. But she didn’t kill them. One of her manufacturers, one who had worked for since the beginning- he was responsible.”

“Let me guess,” Reiner says, “because I think I know where this is going. That man is your father.”

“Good guess,” Annie says drily. “Did you also figure out that he’s a manipulative, controlling bastard?”

Reiner raises an eyebrow. “I… didn’t get quite that far.”

Annie picks up another handful of papers from her file; she thumbs through them, glancing through the contents, before tossing them onto the fire one by one. They burn up and crumple, sending tiny sparks into the air.

“After my mother died,” she starts, “he took over the business. She was a bootlegger, so none of this was ever legal. It’s not like I was expecting him to keep the business completely clean, because it never had been. But he took it to a different level. My mother was always content keeping her operation stable where it was. She had loyal customers and loyal workers, and she valued them. She focused on producing something worthwhile in a smaller area, rather than trying to dominate the whole region.

“My father expanded the operation after she died,” she continues. “That’s how it became what it is today: a whiskey empire, as he likes to think, albeit with a legal license since prohibition ended. But he wanted to control the market. That’s what he’s always wanted, since the beginning. That’s why he killed her competition, back in the day. He was never happy with how she ran things. And when she died, he got his chance, finally, to expand his empire.

“He runs a tight ship. He’ll take out anyone who gets in his way. I don’t know a lot of the details; he’s good at covering up his indecencies. But I’ve watched him destroy other companies, other families, just to take over their market. I know that’s what business is. But he’s ruthless, and it’s not just him, either. It’s the entire company. He’s rebuilt my mother’s brand on this idea of dominance. There’s no room for competition and no room for mistakes.”

She stabs the fire. “It’s not like I could change it if I got inside. He built his empire to run that way. It’s totally ruthless.”

Reiner pauses, raising an eyebrow. “You’re telling me your dad runs the whiskey mafia.”

“If you want to call it that.”

“That seems like an apt name for it,” Reiner says. “I mean, geez, it’s just whiskey.”

Annie rolls her eyes, and for a moment, she is the most honest Reiner has even seen her. “Try telling him that,” she says.

“So that’s why you’re leaving?” Reiner asks gently. “Because of him?”

Her lips tighten, and for a moment he wonders if this is really the truth; this seems far too personal for Annie. Then again, it doesn’t seem like it matters anymore. She’s leaving soon, and she’s burning all the evidence.

“He’s grooming me to take over the business,” she says. “But I’m not going to be complicit. I want nothing to do with it.”

She pokes her stick around the fire, brushing the burning papers into a thicker pile of ash. “That’s why I have to leave,” she says. “I have to get out before it’s too late.”

“Where are you going?” Reiner asks.

Annie scoffs.

“I meant-” He cuts himself off. “I mean, you know, generally. What are you going to do once you leave this place?”

Annie pauses, staring into the fire. “Whatever I want.”

Silence falls over them, but almost immediately something sparks inside Reiner. He furrows his brow, but he keeps his mouth shut. He wants to point out the obvious: she’s distancing herself from her father’s crimes as much as possible, but she’s willing to overlook whatever happened to Marco here? He refuses to ask, in case she hasn’t realized her own hypocrisy. But he knows that Annie is too smart for that, and when he looks up to see the curious look in her eye, as if she’s asking if he’s figured it out, he realizes what this means.

“Oh,” he exclaims. “You don’t really think we had anything to do with Marco’s disappearance.”

“I’m not saying you’re not involved,” Annie says instantly.

“Well, then what are you saying?”

She tosses the last few papers onto the fire before answering him. “You’re an idiot,” she says, “but you’re not a killer.”

The words hang awkwardly over the fire as the flames grow higher. Reiner wishes he could feel reassured by that, that even Annie trusts him enough to believe that he’s a good person, but if anything, her comment only encourages the queasiness in his stomach. He can feel her watching him, but he avoids her gaze.

“You seem surprised,” she says.

“I guess,” Reiner sighs. The fire flickers. “I never got the impression that you really liked me.”

“I don’t,” Annie says. She prods at the fire again, but the papers are all but ash now, and the flames are dying down. “But I think I understand you well enough to know that if you’re involved in this mess, it’s not because you started it.”

“What about Bertholdt?” Reiner asks.

“He’s smarter than you,” Annie says. “Whatever this is, you dragged him into it.”

“They don’t suspect us,” Reiner says. He wonders why he’s telling this to Annie, of all people, but this is the most genuine he has ever seen her. “They brought me in again today, but they let me go. They think we’re just a couple of dumb kids.”

“You are just a couple of dumb kids,” Annie says. “Anyways, that’s probably just what they want you to think.”

He nearly rolls his eyes.

“That short one,” Annie says, “the one with the eyes. He’s on to you.”

Reiner says nothing, but he knows what she means. Those dark eyes seem to follow him around the school, constantly watching him. He believes that they’re going to be okay, that everything will be okay, but on another deeper level, he knows that Levi isn’t going to let this go, that he suspects something more: he just can’t prove it.

“You could stay,” Reiner says, changing the subject.

Annie glances at him from behind her bangs. “What?”

“You could wait until the end of the next year,” he says, “after you’ve turned eighteen, and then you could leave. You could stay now and help the police figure this out.”

“You could tell the police what you saw,” she says, and Reiner shuts his mouth. “But then again, I guess we all have our reasons for keeping secrets.”

She turns her face back to the dying fire; it is nearly gone now, just a few sparks and embers over a pile of dark ash. “If I’m going to leave,” she says, “then it has to be now. I’m expected home in a few weeks after exams. I need a head start.”

The word _now_ rings in Reiner’s head. “You’re leaving now? You mean… tomorrow?”

“I thought we had established this during our conversation last night.”

“No, it’s just…” He trails off, then shakes his head. The sun has nearly slipped past the horizon of the forest, and the clouds are seeping back over the darkening sky. It must be curfew by now, and he needs to get back. God forbid he get in trouble for something else.

“Never mind,” Reiner sighs, clambering to his feet. “It’s clear you’ve made your decision.”

“You’re right,” Annie says. She watches the dying embers of the fire. “Nothing can change my mind.”

Her words echo strangely in his mind, like the fact that she has to say that aloud means she’s still justifying it to herself; but Reiner lets it go. He didn’t mean to have this heart to heart with her tonight. He thought maybe having some answers would settle his worries, but now he’s not sure if it’s done more harm than good. After all, the original presumption was that knowing as little as possible would benefit them; the police are going to ask about Annie when she disappears, and now that he knows the truth, will he really be able to…?

“I should go,” Reiner says. “It’s almost curfew.”

“It is curfew,” Annie says. “You _should_ go.”

He picks up his tennis racket and tucks it awkwardly under his arm. “Bye, Annie,” he mutters.

\--

Morning comes in a rainfall. The grey clouds have returned overnight, and they fill the frame of the sky, casting shadows across the entire valley. This dismal weather greets the students of Trost when they rise of Saturday morning. They dress in silence, lost glances seeking out comfort across the room. They gather their books before breakfast; there are only two classes on Saturday mornings- religion and home economics- but it seems like they have all forgotten about their free afternoons, a usual source of relief and pleasure. The rain falls heavily against the earth throughout breakfast. The constant downfall draws everyone’s moods down with it. Reiner sits stiff at the table, feeling as if he is the only one aware of anything, and he is painfully aware. He glances around the quiet dining hall, wondering when they will notice. The other students are lost in thought, even Bertholdt. Perhaps that is why they don’t notice Annie’s absence until their religion teacher promptly notifies them so, sending a startling hush across their small classroom.

“What do you mean, miss?” Sasha exclaims, nearly jumping out of her seat. “She’s gone- does that mean she’s missing too?”

The teacher glowers. “Have a seat, Miss Braus,” she says.

Sasha hesitates for a moment before dropping back into her seat. The rest of the students wait expectantly for the teacher to explain. Reiner throws a glance over his shoulder. Bertholdt is staring at him with wide eyes. Reiner looks away.

“The police have control of the situation,” the teacher says, folding her hands in front of herself. “But in order for them to do their jobs, we must suspend regular classes for the day. You will remain in this classroom until you are given further notice.”

She stares over them. “Am I understood?”

A collective miserable murmur of “yes, miss,” echoes over the classroom. The teacher grabs her notebooks from her desk at the front of the room.

“I will return briefly,” she says. “Anyone caught outside this room will face swift and severe punishments.”

She disappears without another word, and when the door shuts behind her, whispers immediately break out over the classroom. Sasha launches up from her seat and crosses to the back of the room to wedge herself onto Connie’s desk; it isn’t long before others follow suit, grouping together in whispering circles. Reiner waits for a moment, biting his lip, then rises and crosses to the window where Bertholdt sits, still staring at him. He drops into Mina’s seat across from Bertholdt.

“Did you know?” Bertholdt hisses, turning to face Reiner.

Reiner furrows his brow and crosses his arms. “She told us that she was leaving soon,” he says. “You were there for that.”

“She told us she was leaving soon,” Bertholdt repeats. “I didn’t know that meant _today_.”

He runs his hands through his hair, sucking in a breath; he stops, ruffles his hair back into place, and drops one elbow against the desk, setting his chin in his hand. “This is never going to end, Reiner,” he whispers. “It keeps getting bigger and bigger, and now we have to lie about Annie too. I mean-”

“You knew that we’d have to cover for her when we agreed to help her,” Reiner says.

“I knew that we didn’t really have a choice because she was blackmailing us,” Bertholdt hisses. He glances over his shoulder, but the rest of the class is just as occupied in their discussions. He turns back around. “I didn’t sign up for this, Reiner. I mean, when is it going to end? What if someone else overheard something? What if someone saw something? What if-”

“It will be fine,” Reiner mutters. “It’s going to be fine.”

“You keep saying that, but you can’t know that,” Bertholdt says. “The police have been searching the woods, and now that Annie is gone too, they’re going to think she’s involved in this. They’re going to keep looking, and soon they’ll get to the lake, and if they’re really looking-”

“That’s not going to happen,” Reiner exclaims under his breath, leaning forward. His fingers itch, urging him to reach out and take Bertholdt’s hand, but he drums them against the table inside, tapping a frantic rhythm. “It’s going to be fine.”

“You can’t know that, Reiner-”

He cuts himself off suddenly when a presence appears over his shoulder. It’s Sasha, an anxious look drawn over her face as she leans on a desk beside them and fidgets with her ponytail.

“Do y’all know anything about this?” she asks.

Bertholdt sucks in a breath. “W-what?”

“I just noticed you’ve been spending a lot of time with Annie lately,” Sasha says. She sets her hands back against the edge of the desk and spreads her feet out, staring down at her shoes; the black patent leather shines under the overhead lights, and she bends down to tug at her knee socks before glancing back up. “I was just wondering if she told you anything.”

Reiner purses his lips, glancing across at Bertholdt. “No,” he says, and Sasha’s shoulders deflate. “But, hey, listen, I’m sure-”

“Something’s going on,” she exclaims, cutting him off. She stares between them, her eyes distant. “I believed the police at first, you know, I thought there was a sensible explanation for whatever’s happened to Marco, but now Annie too? I- I want proof before I believe anything else, but Eren’s got this theory, and you know him, he can be convincing when he wants to be…”

She trails off. “Armin’s gone to ask the detectives what’s going on,” she says. “He says it’s not fair to keep us in the dark like this.”

Reiner furrows his brow. “Weren’t we just threatened with _swift and severe punishments_ if we left this room?”

Sasha shrugs. “He didn’t really seem to care. He and Eren, they’re determined to get to the bottom of this, I mean- well, you know them.”

She falls silent again. The rest of the students have gathered in the center of the classroom, piled onto desks and chairs, discussing in low, serious voices; Sasha lingers at the window for a moment, but after a moment, she wordlessly stands up and moves to join the larger circle, crossing her arms uncomfortably around her body. Reiner does not move, but he listens intently to their conversation.

“I heard that Marco’s parents are coming down today,” someone says from across the room. “Imagine what they’re in for. He’s been gone for almost a week, and now there’s this too… how long after someone disappears do you stop looking?”

“But Annie took her things with her,” one of the girls says. “I noticed this morning that her bags were gone. I didn’t think anything of it, but, well, she must have known where she was going. Marco just- he just disappeared.”

“I heard Annie was in the family way,” Bertholdt suddenly says.

Reiner sputters, glancing wildly across at Bertholdt, who has not moved in any way to indicate that he is listening to the discussion at all. The group seems visibly startled by this statement, and they turn towards the window, confused.

“What?” Ymir exclaims. “Are you serious?”

Bertholdt shrugs, still turned away from the group. “I just heard it.”

Another rapid discussion breaks out, and as the group slowly turns back into their circle, Reiner can’t take his startled gaze off Bertholdt.

“What the hell, Bert?” he says when the group is gone.

Bertholdt looks up. “What?”

“ _That_ ,” Reiner exclaims. “What the hell was that?”

“We don’t want the police to think Annie and Marco are connected,” he says under his breath. “I just thought- I don’t know, if they think Annie may have been knocked up, then maybe they’ll believe that she used the investigation as a cover up to run away.”

“Jesus Christ,” Reiner mutters. He rubs his forehead. “God, you’re getting crafty.”

He’s hardly uttered the words when the classroom door suddenly slams open. Silence falls across the room, the entire group turning to look at the disruption. Reiner furrows his brow, unable to see from behind the other students, and stands to crane over the crowd. There in the doorway stands Armin, his eyes wide.

“They found him,” he exclaims. “They found Marco.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation changes course as the police search the school for a killer. Reiner reveals to Bertholdt a secret that could expose them.

“This Land is Cursed/Psalm of Nod” by The Sons of Perdition

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/pEZr/)

“The air is hot, the water’s cold  
What lurks beneath is ages old”

\--

The early morning sky hung over them like a wet blanket draped across their shoulders: heavy and dark and unbearable. The midnight blue of the night was fading as the earliest rays of the sun began to peak over the forest on the horizon, leaving in its place a canvas of drowsy grey strokes, the kind that summons days and days of ugly weather. Frogs croaked across the swamp. A heron fluttered down from the cypress trees, a clump of Spanish moss hanging from one leg, and dropped silently into the thin shallows on the other side of the swamp. It cocked its head in their direction, and its gaze seemed to pierce through them. Reiner wished it would fly away.

He glanced sideways at Bertholdt, who seemed to hesitate. Suddenly distant, he stared off into the woods, his gaze trembling and unfocused. He paused for a moment more, seemingly at a loss for words, before he glanced back to Reiner and spoke again.

“This way,” he said, “no one will know the truth.”

“No one will know,” Reiner echoed.          

They stood there for a moment more, staring across the swamp; then the heron flapped its wings and took off into the dawn, and Reiner sighed.

“Come on,” he said, turning back to the van. “We’ve got to do this.”

The water swung heavily against their knees as they trod into the deep, but the body in their arms weighed so much more. Steadily they went; the mud at the bottom of the swamp clung to their shoes, sucking them down, and the wet stench of wild water rose around them as they went. Above them, mosquitoes swarmed. Below them, algae plastered against their knees. Into the water they carried on. Deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until the green water was splashing across their waists and they could go no further.

Bertholdt on the left, Reiner on the right: in their arms, the wrapped corpse of someone they used to know. He weighed them down, a bulk that pressed down on their arms and begged to be released into the abyss of the swamp. Covered with stones, legs and arms loose as though he were merely asleep: they carried him out into the swamp, grimacing and groaning, and finally they stopped there in the center.

One. Two. Three.

They let him go.

\--

The classroom buzzes with noise. Some of the students, upon hearing Armin’s exclamation, leap to their feet and push desks out of the way as they clamber towards him, demanding to know more information. Others stay anchored to their desks, remaining upright for only a moment or two before the weight of the revelation sends them stumbling back into their seats. Reiner tenses, his hands clenching along the edge of the desk where he sits, but he does not rise. Bertholdt freezes.

“They found him?” someone shouts immediately; their exclamation is followed by urgent questions of _where_ and _when_ and _how_. A circle of eager and anxious students, suddenly more awake than they have been for the past week, gathers around the door where Armin stands, hands held up in surrender. He stutters for a moment as the questions continue to pour in, his flustered gaze shifting from one face to another. Finally, when they realize they’re not getting any answers, the interrogation sputters out and dies, and the room falls silent again.

“What happened?” Mikasa asks, stepping forward out of the circle.

“I don’t know everything,” Armin says breathlessly, lowering his hands. “I just overheard what the detectives said, and I thought I should tell you all. I think we should go to find out more.”

“Let’s go,” Eren exclaims, reaching for his blazer.

The crowd bursts into a frenzy again; across the classroom, Reiner watches. He tries to listen, but the voices are too many at once, and they fizzle out, becoming numb and distant in his ears. He sits, his gaze darting over the students as they argue, and suddenly the room seems far away, like he’s watching the scene from outside the window. The silence in his ears overwhelms him; he blinks, turning his head away, and when he opens his eyes again, suddenly the conversation is as loud and piercing as it was before.

“Reiner?”

He looks up. Bertholdt is watching him; he’s pale.

“What?” Reiner asks, blinking. “Did you say something?”

Bertholdt looks away.

“Wait a minute,” someone calls in the group across the classroom. Reiner stands, rolling his sleeves up past his elbows, and sticks his hands in his pockets as he crosses the room to join the group gathered by the door.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Historia exclaims when Reiner edges his way into the circle. She hovers on the edge of the group, her arms crossed. If Reiner didn’t know better, he might think she was anxious; but her stoic expression lets on that she’s more irritated than anything else: frustrated by the lack of restraint shown by her classmates. She is right to be cautious; one student’s wrongdoings could prove troublesome for the whole class, now more than ever, and the last thing any of them want- or need- is to spend the weekend being cracked across the knuckles. Still, she’s outnumbered by the rest of the students, most of whom are desperate for any piece of information they can get, no matter how they get it.

“What?” Eren exclaims, blinking at her from across the circle. “What do you mean?”

“I know what you’re thinking,” Historia says. Her gaze shifts from Eren to Armin, who fidgets under her stare. “You think you’re going to go and find out what’s going on, but you haven’t stopped to ask if that’s a good idea or not.”

“It is a good idea,” Eren insists.

“It’s an awful idea,” Historia exclaims. “You’re going to get all of us in trouble just so you can play detective-”

“I’m not playing detective!”

“Please, come on,” Armin exclaims, throwing out an arm to hold Eren back. “Don’t do this.”

With an abrupt squeak of her shoes against the wooden floor, Sasha leaps to her feet and goes to stand by Armin. “I’m going too,” she says. She fidgets as she talks, tugging the sleeves of her shirt down, then pushing them back up, like she can’t decide how to stand. “I don’t care if it’s a dumb idea, I just- I need to know what’s going on.”

“Exactly,” Eren exclaims, as Historia turns away, exasperated. “We have a right to know what’s going on.”

“I thought our dean would tell us anything we need to know,” someone shouts from the back of the room. There’s a few coarse laughs; then the reality of their sobering situation wanders back into the frame of their minds, and the laughter stops.

“Mikasa,” Eren says as he starts towards the door. “You’re coming, right?”

“Someone has to make sure you don’t get arrested.”

“Does anyone else want to come?” Sasha asks. She glances around, tugging on the cuffs of her shirt to pull them over her hands.

“Connie?” Armin asks. “Reiner?”

Reiner blinks. “Huh?”

“Just asking if you want to come,” Armin says. “We might be gone a while, so if you want to know what’s going on, then…”

“Where are we going exactly?” Sasha asks. “I thought the police had finished the sweep on campus.”

“They did,” Armin says. “They didn’t find him on campus.”

A pregnant silence hangs in the air before Sasha finally asks the unanswered question.

“Where did they find him?” she asks softly.

“I don’t know any of the details,” Armin says immediately. “I just overheard the detectives talking to someone on the radio. They were on their way to Lake Stohess.”

“Lake Stohess?” Eren echoes.

Sasha wrinkles her nose, glancing around at the others. “You mean… the swamp?”

Armin nods. “That’s what they said,” he says. “The police have been canvassing the woods, and they found something in the lake. Like I said, I don’t really know the details, but…”

“I told you this was stupid,” Historia exclaims suddenly. They all turn to look at her; her arms are still crossed, but her voice and expression have softened a bit. “If they found him in the lake, then I think we all know what that means-”

“What _what_ means?” Eren says, cutting her off. “You heard Armin: they found him _at_ the lake, not _in_ the lake. It was whatever they found _in_ the lake that led them to find Marco _at_ the lake.” He glances back to Armin. “Right?”

Armin hesitates. There is only a moment of short silence before he speaks again, but it is enough to drop everyone’s heart into their stomach.

“I’m just repeating what I heard,” Armin says softly. “But we’re going to the lake, regardless, right? I think it’s time we got some answers.”

“Right,” Eren echoes. “Come on, then.”

“We’re going too,” Reiner exclaims as the group starts out the door. He glances over his shoulder, across the classroom to where Bertholdt still sits, now staring at him with an incredulous expression. “Bert, come on, we’re going too.”

Next to Reiner, Ymir snorts. She leans forward to glance sideways at Historia, who stands across the aisle, arms crossed. “You should go too, Reiss,” Ymir says, grinning. “Go and ask the detectives for some answers.”

Historia purses her lips. “I’d like to give that short one a piece of my mind,” she mutters.

Ymir laughs. “I’m not sure what right you have to call him short, you shrimp.”

Eren hangs in the doorframe, watching the conversation unfold, but he finally has enough of the banter and steps back into the classroom, irritation flashing across his face. “Are we going or not?” he exclaims.

Reiner glances back to Bertholdt. He has risen from his seat, slowly, carefully, and crossed towards the group in silence, his arms folded awkwardly across his body. Some of the color has returned to his face, but he moves gingerly, as if he could fall apart at any moment. He lingers behind Reiner as the rest of the students shuffle back to their seats to wait; when the departing group finally collects themselves and heads out the door, he shuts his eyes and follows them.

The corridors of Trost are empty and quiet as the students sneak towards the back door, their shoes tiptoeing quietly along the stone floors; the teachers and staff are occupied in the front hall, where another fleet of police officers have arrived to take control of the situation. When they reach the back door and shuffle outside, they find that the rain has ceased; the sky remains grey and cloudy, and mud splatters over their ankles as they start the long walk towards the lake. Eren and Armin lead the group, heading past the gardens, past the chapel, into the northeast quarter of the woods. Reiner wonders for a moment: are they going to trample through the forest, stumbling over brush and logs on this journey to the lake? Then they round the back of the chapel, and suddenly the entrance to a path appears. It looks like it hasn’t been cleared in months; moss and shrubs have grown over the path, and fallen branches scatter the dirt trail. But there was clearly something here once, and Eren starts down it with a familiarity.

“Has this path always been here?” Reiner calls ahead. He ducks beneath a low-hanging oak branch, following the students in front of him deeper into the woods. “I thought I knew every inch of this school.”

Eren whacks a vine out of the path, then stops to answer. “It used to be a running path,” he calls back, turning around to face Reiner. “It’s gotten really overgrown, because they stopped clearing it this year. But it leads right to the lake! We used to run there all the time.”

Reiner nods. Behind him, he hears a low, irritated grumble from Bertholdt: “It’s a swamp.”

Reiner glances back just in time to catch sight of him stumbling through a thick pile of wet leaves. “Don’t be like that,” he says.

“Reiner, this isn’t a good idea,” Bertholdt exclaims as he clambers out of the leaves. One of his shoes sticks to the muddy forest floor and he wobbles for a moment as he tries to pull it free. It unsticks with an unpleasant squelching sound, and he stumbles forward to catch up with Reiner. “This is _not_ a good idea.”

“You want to know what they’re found, don’t you?” Reiner asks.

Bertholdt glances forward, but the others are yards ahead, just flashes of color moving through the trees. “Of course,” Bertholdt says, his voice soft. “But I don’t know if we should be there, at- you know- _the scene of the crime_.”

“Bert,” Reiner says, jumping over a fallen branch, “if the police really found him, then-”

“Of course they found him,” Bertholdt exclaims. He stumbles over the fallen branch. Reiner stops and waits for him, shoving his hands in his pockets. When Bertholdt catches up again, he asks in a low voice, “What else could they have possibly found at the lake?”

“I don’t know,” Reiner says with a shrug. He starts down the path again, his pace faster to catch up with the others. “Maybe they found evidence about who did it.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes…”

The trail continues into the woods. If the sun was out, the forest canopy would block out the light; but the day is gray and dull anyways, so the thick cover of the forest just serves to lock them into the decision. Reiner walks behind Sasha and Mikasa, quiet; he can hear Bertholdt a few yards back, reluctant but still determined. Besides the crunch of their feet against the brush and the occasional whack to clear a vine or branch, the forest sits quietly all around them. They walk farther into the woods, hardly saying a word to each other. At first, adrenaline propelled them forward as they adventured to the lake. But the dark woods sticks something else into their minds, something deep and unsettling. If Marco has been found at the lake, then he must have been out here for days; they’re imagining, unwillingly, what that must be like, to be so alone…

Reiner rounds a twist in the path and comes to an abrupt halt, nearly stumbling into Sasha and Mikasa, who are stopped in the path, watching as Eren and Armin fight a swarm of thorny bushes that have grown out over the trail. They tear at the vines, trying to pull them out of the way, while the others grimace and turn their heads to avoid getting hit in the face with debris.

“This is a lot farther than I remember,” Armin says, stumbling back from the bush. He winces as he picks a thorn out of his thumb.

“Do you think we’ll get there in time?” Sasha asks. Eren whacks the bush again, and Sasha shields her face with her arm, squealing. When she looks up again, she shakes the leaves out of her hair. “We’ve been walking for almost twenty minutes.”

“It will take the police longer than that to process a scene,” Eren grunts as he fights the bush. He kicks the final, thick vine out of the way, and a small opening is cleared in the trail. “Anyways, I think we’re almost there. I can smell the swamp.”

“It smells like shit,” Armin mutters, wiping his hands off on his slacks.

Bertholdt rounds the corner, finally, and steps on Reiner’s heel. “Sorry,” he mutters, stepping back. “What’s going on?”

“We just had to clear a path,” Reiner says. “But we think we’re getting close to the lake.”

They shuffle forward through the small opening in the brush, squeezing through one at a time, the vines and leaves scratching at their faces and snagging on their white, cotton shirts. Reiner ducks as he walks through, wincing at a thorn that catches the hem of his trousers and surely tears a hole at his ankle. He’s barely made it out of the opening when he hears someone yell, “Oh, damn!”

He starts, jerking his head up and promptly smacking it into a branch that hangs just over the opening of the brush. He hisses and clutches a hand at the back of his head; but once he’s gotten over it, he steps forward, blinking, and tries to make sense of the scene before him. Eren was leading the group, but he’s collapsed onto the ground, one of his feet tucked under him; Armin tries to examine it, but Eren jerks his leg away, swearing under his breath. Behind them, Mikasa stands, staring at the ground; when he hears Reiner approach, she turns around.

“What’s going on?” Reiner asks. “Geez, I let y’all get five feet ahead and this happens…”

“There’s a hole in the ground,” Mikasa says. She points at the ground, and there is, indeed, a hole: deep enough to sprain one’s ankle, he’d wager.

Behind Reiner, Sasha and Bertholdt have just emerged through the brush, and they stop to stare, picking leaves out of their hair.

“What happened?” Sasha exclaims, treading forward. “Eren stepped in a hole?”

“It’s a ditch,” Eren yells.

Mikasa doesn’t roll her eyes, but she doesn’t have to. The rest of them do it for her.

“That’s a hole,” Reiner says. He steps over the hole easily and crosses to where Eren is collapsed on the ground, scowling up at the forest. “Did you not look where you were walking? That seems pretty hard to miss.”

“That didn’t used to be here,” he grumbles. He sits up, still clutching his knee to his chest, and winces. “ _God_. I broke it.”

“You didn’t break it,” Armin mutters.

“Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain,” Sasha calls.

“ _Gosh_ ,” Eren screams. “I broke it.”

“You didn’t break it,” Armin repeats. He smacks Eren’s hand away and examines his ankle. “It’s just sprained or something. You’ll be fine.”

“We should turn back,” Mikasa says, stepping gingerly over the hole to reach them. “You need to get that looked at.”

“I’m not going back,” Eren exclaims. “We’re almost there.”

They soldier on.

The going is slow; Armin leads, with Eren and Mikasa limping right behind. Reiner walks next to Sasha in silence, and Bertholdt trudges along in the rear. No one speaks, but the forest is no longer quiet; cicadas hum in the trees, their song throbbing in and out as the students follow the winding path through the woods. Every so often a bird calls across the valley, and the noise echoes between the trees; smaller birds squawk and fly away. The air feels wet and heavy, and the ground beneath them begins to sag as they venture deeper into the forest. They are getting close to the lake. Reiner can feel it. But the walk seems to go on forever. They climb over logs, duck under heavy branches, and wind their way through the trees, going ever deeper and deeper. The journey continues: five minutes, ten minutes, fifteen minutes, and then Reiner loses track of time. He is just about to declare them dizzily lost when suddenly, the front of the line stops.

“What is it?” Mikasa asks.

Armin glances over his shoulder at them, then nods his head forward without a word. Through a thin line of cypress trees, Reiner sees a flickering blue light.

“That’s a police car,” Eren exclaims in a hushed whisper.

Armin nods. “We’re here.”

The cypress trees, growing on the edge of the clearing, shield them from view as they approach the lake. The air reeks of swamp water: dusky and muddy. Beyond the tree line, an unreal scene unfolds before their eyes, and they watch in a dazed silence. Police officers mill up and down the muddy bank of the lake, passing papers and clipboards to each other as they murmur in low, solemn voices. Half a dozen police cars are piled up at the entrance to the swamp where the forest clears; across from the cars, sitting askew on the grass, is an ambulance. The flashing police lights shine against the white paint of the ambulance, and they dance across the surface of the water, flickering back and forth. The tree canopy breaks over the lake, letting in what little sunlight the day brings. Reiner traces his gaze over the scene, but there is so much movement that he finds it hard to focus on one thing. Finally, he spies the detectives standing to the side, watching the officers work. They’re leaning back against one of the police cars, but they say nothing to each other: just survey the scene in silence. Reiner is about to look away when Detective Smith suddenly stands up straight and points to something across the clearing. Reiner follows his gesture.

Five or six police officers are waist deep in the swamp. They meander through the water for a moment, talking and pointing and shifting their positions. They come to some sort of conclusion finally, and they rearrange themselves into a circle, their arms outstretched into the water, their knees bent. Reiner furrows his brow. Something is floating between them-

“Look,” Sasha exclaims, pointing past Reiner. The brush and trees rustle as everyone turns to look at the lake. “What are they doing?”

Armin steps forward in the brush, peering between the leaves of the trees. “They’re pulling something out of the lake.”

“That’s…” Mikasa exclaims suddenly, her voice like a ghost; but she trails off, lost for words. Silence hangs over their shoulders, pulling them down as they watch the scene unfold before their eyes. The police officers work carefully, but efficiently; they waste no time. A stretcher is rolled out towards the bank of the lake, and Sasha turns her face away, closing her eyes and holding her breath. The rest of them watch in a petrified hush. That is what they think it is. That is _who_ they think it is.

They watch as the police officers carry the body towards the shore, the green water of the swamp splashing against their knees. Reiner turns his face and glances at the other students; one by one, they avert their gazes and look away.

Armin turns around to face them, swallowing. “They found him,” he mutters.

“What do you think- oh, shit,” Eren exclaims, cutting himself off with a grimace. The other students look up and immediately see Detective Levi crossing towards them through the brush, his hands stuffed in his coat pockets. He looks even more unpleasant than usual, with heavy bags under his eyes and a sour expression on his face. Bertholdt starts, but he has nowhere to move, trapped between the trees; Reiner glances back at him, an eyebrow raised, but he says nothing.

The students fall silent as Levi approaches them, ducking under a low-hanging branch to slip into their hiding spot in the brush. He stops a few feet before them, and he looks over them for a moment before speaking.

“You kids shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“We’re sorry, sir,” Armin says immediately. “We heard that you’ve found- something, and we just needed to know if it was true.”

“The teachers don’t tell us anything,” Eren interjects, brushing a loose strand of Spanish moss from his hair as he steps forward. “We wanted to know what was going on.”

Levi’s expression softens a bit, but he turns his face away from them. He looks out into the woods that surround the lake, pensive; then he purses his lips.

“I’ve been watching you since you got here,” he says. “You could have picked a better hiding spot.”

Behind him, the police continue their work. The low buzz of conversation carries across the lake, but it is not loud enough to be understood. The students watch in silence for a moment as police officers comb the bank of the lake, milling between stations and flipping through notes. Two technicians have waded thigh deep into the water, carrying nets between them. On the far bank, near the parade of police cars, Reiner can still see the stretcher. Officer Ral partially blocks his view as she sorts through an array of technical equipment on the hood of one car; but he can still see the white sheet hanging off the end of the stretcher, as well as the lump that lies still beneath it.

Levi looks back up at them. “You’ve seen everything,” he says.

The stretcher seems to stare back at them as Levi’s words echo; the white sheet reflects the sunlight, and it blinks brightly against the dark woods that surround the lake. The edges of the sheet flutter slightly in the soft breeze. Reiner gets a chill.

“So that’s him,” Sasha says. Her voice cracks on her next words. “That’s Marco.”

For a moment, Levi seems genuinely concerned. “I’m sorry, kids,” is all he says.

Sasha swallows hard. Tears linger at the corner of her eyes, but she holds them back as she speaks. “Can we see him?” she asks. “Please?”

For the first time, Levi hesitates. Something changes in his demeanor; where his expression was once soft, it is suddenly sour again: his brows furrowed, his eyes dark. He shifts his gaze away from the students, glances peripherally over his shoulder for a moment, then turns back to them, his eyes slowly coming back up to meet their gazes. He pauses as if to say something profound; they wait, holding their breaths.

But he simply purses his lips and says, “No.”

“Please,” Sasha exclaims immediately. “We don’t care if he’s been in the lake for a few days, please, he’s our friend.”

She steps forward, her feet stumbling in the brush and needles, but as she moves towards the detective, pleading, Armin suddenly thrusts a hand out. He grabs her by the shoulder and stops her in her tracks. A look of realization is steadily dawning across his face, his eyes growing wide as he stares past the others and instead looks out over the lake. Reiner suddenly gets an uneasy feeling in his stomach. He glances sideways at Bertholdt, who is watching Armin with a similarly dawning expression of confusion. Eren stumbles forward, but he winces as he steps on his injured ankle; instead, he just reaches out and puts a hand on Armin’s shoulder.

“What?” he asks. “What is it?”

Armin does not respond.

Sasha glances around to Armin, who stands at the center of the group, shell-shocked. She looks at Eren, Mikasa, and then Reiner, but they each shake their head at her, just as confused as she is. Reiner glances around at Bertholdt again, who now seems more perturbed than anything else. He makes eye contact with Reiner; he mouths ‘what is it,’ but Reiner shrugs. If Armin has seen something that the rest of them have not, then it is not obvious to him.

Armin starts, suddenly, jolting out of his reverie, and Eren jerks his hand back, surprised. Armin glances to Levi first; Levi says nothing, but he shifts his stance away from the group and turns his face to the ground, hands still stuffed in his pockets.

“What’s going on?” Mikasa finally asks, stepping forward through the brush to stand next to Armin.

“The lake,” he says. His voice breaks, but he speaks clearly enough to be understood.

Eren furrows his brow, glancing between Armin and Mikasa. “What?” he exclaims. “What about the lake? What are you talking about?”

“The lake,” Armin repeats. “In the lake, there’s…”

Suddenly, Bertholdt gasps.

“Oh, my God,” he cries.

Everyone whirls around to look at him, the brush crunching under their feet as they shift. Bertholdt clasps a trembling hand over his mouth. His gaze is static as he stares out over the lake, but his wide eyes shake, as does the rest of him; for a moment, he loses his footing, and he stumbles sideways. He catches himself, sucking in a deep breath, but his terrified expression does not change.

“What the hell is going on?” Reiner exclaims, crossing back towards Bertholdt. “Bert, what is it? What’s wrong?”

Bertholdt’s gaze is unfocused. He looks past Reiner, past Armin, past the rest of the group, and stares straight into the dark water of Lake Stohess.

“In the lake,” he breathes, his voice hollow. “There are alligators in the lake.”

In the distance, a heron squawks. Its call echoes over the valley, bellowing between the trees of the thick forest and falling deep into the dark, green water of the swamp. The sound rings like a bell against the resounding silence. When the heron swoops off into the sky and the sound finally fades, the silence remains, lingering over the small brush thicket where the students stand, shell-shocked, staring at the lake.

Somewhere in the silence, the other detective appears at Levi’s shoulder, his expression solemn. Reiner hears Levi say something to him, but his ears are ringing and their voices are muffled, as if he is underwater and they are standing on the shore watching him drown. The wheels of his mind have cranked to a halt. He knows what Bertholdt just said, he knows what that means- they all know what that means- but he cannot comprehend the reality of that statement. The detectives continue to talk, their voices low and distant. Reiner stares past them; the rest of the world spins around him, but the thin white sheet pulled over the stretcher remains steady, staring back at him from across the clearing.

Another bird screeches and suddenly his reverie is broken. He blinks. The detectives are muttering to each other, but their voices are nearly drowned out by the cacophonous movement on the shore of the lake. Officers are guiding the stretcher into the back of the ambulance. Reiner sucks in a breath and looks away. He turns to the other students. Armin has gone pale. Sasha is murmuring a prayer under her breath. Bertholdt stands in the back, a hand clasped over his mouth; when he sees Reiner, he stumbles back into the trees and vomits.

Reiner turns away.

“You should get back to the school,” Levi says quietly. A moment passes before the students realize that he is talking to them. They glance up: awake again, but unable to speak.

“I don’t know how you got out here,” he continues, “but you’re still under lockdown. You should get back before anyone knows you’re gone.”

There’s something comforting about the fact that he isn’t going to punish them for explicitly breaking the lockdown order, and the whole group seems to breathe again, as if brought back to life.

“Eren hurt his ankle,” Mikasa says, breaking the students’ silence with a quiet voice. “He can’t walk back.”

“I’m fine,” Eren says, but his voice is soft and low.

Detective Smith turns back to the police cars and gestures for the students to follow him. “I’ll drive you all back,” he says.

“I’ll do it,” Levi says.

Smith waves him away. “You stay here and help Hange,” he says. “Come on, kids. Let’s go.”

\--

The school grounds are quiet when they return to Trost. The students walk solemnly up the stone steps to the entrance as a midmorning rain begins to fall from the gray clouds above. They hesitate for a moment, stopping in the doorway to let the rain hit their upturned faces before they continue inside. They don’t look at each other. They don’t speak. There are no words.

By noon, the word has spread. The students are released for lunch at the stroke of the bell, and they gather in the dining hall in a somber gloom. The junior class is silent. They watch their reflections in the murky, unsettling soup served for lunch. Eren’s loud presence is absent from the table, carted off to the infirmary for a bandage and some ice; with three of their peers gone, the table feels alarmingly bare. Hardly anyone touches their food. Reiner sits and stares at the glass of milk just out of his hand’s reach; he’s parched, but he can’t bring himself to pick up the glass. There’s something about the thought of swallowing that turns his stomach. Across from him, Bertholdt sits with his head in his hands, an empty space before him on the table. He has not bothered to pretend like he’s going to eat like the rest of them have done.

Around them, the dining hall stirs. The freshmen and sophomores whisper questions and worries up and down their long tables: how can two students go missing in one week? Does this mean that girl has kicked it too? And what do they mean, _found in the lake_? He didn’t drown, did he? He was a prefect, after all.

Uncertainty lingers among all of the students. The lunch period extends half an hour longer than usual, with no clear sign from the faculty about what is going to happen next. On any given Saturday afternoon, the students would be allowed to enjoy their unstructured free time after lunch. But today, the structure of Trost has vanished entirely, and the students sit in wait, wondering what’s coming next.

Minutes before two o’clock, the dean steps into the dining hall, her hands folded solemnly behind her back. A group of teachers fan out behind her, each of them wearing a heavier expression than the last. Her heels click against the floor as she crosses decisively between the tables to stand at the head of the room. When she turns to face the students, they fall silent.

There is no preamble. There is nothing she could to prepare them for whatever is coming.

“I am deeply saddened,” she says, “to report the loss of one of our own, and it is my solemn duty to report to you that, unfortunately, the police recovered the body of Marco Bodt earlier this morning.”

Silence follows. The dean gazes over them, quiet, hesitant, unsure of how to continue. Reiner glances across to Bertholdt; his head is buried in his hands.

“In light of these events,” the dean continues after a moment, “the board and I would have the school closed.

“However,” she continues immediately, her voice booming over the startled flurry of whispers, “at the request of the state police, the school will remain open until the end of the semester. The police will be continuing their investigation on school grounds, and we will show them the utmost respect as they proceed with their work. In the meantime, students will remain under lockdown with a strict curfew. Classes will resume on Monday, and you will all sit for your final exams before you are released for summer.”

If that reassures anyone, it doesn’t show on their faces.

“Unless instructed otherwise,” the dean says, “students are to remain in their dormitories until suppertime. However, the police have requested another round of student interviews, beginning with the junior class. Juniors, please see Miss Brzenska on your way out the door.”

From the table behind them, where the sophomore class sits, shocked and confused, Reiner hears someone mutter, “Imagine when our parents hear about this.”

“That kid is right,” Ymir says when they’ve been released. The door is swarmed by students, and the junior class hang back at their table, waiting for Miss Brzenska’s instructions. Reiner watches the students flock towards the door; he doesn’t know why they’re so desperate to spend the rest of the day trapped in their dormitories, but perhaps there’s something comforting to them about being safely locked away. He scans the crowd. At the head stand the senior prefects, waving the younger students their way. Their badges glint against the lamplight, and Reiner turns his head.

“What do you mean?” Connie asks, glancing up at Ymir. “What kid?”

She gestures to the sophomores as they file out the door. “One of those kids,” she explains, “said something about parents, and he’s right. The dean is going to be in for the ride of her life when parents find out about this. I wouldn’t be surprised if some of them drove down here and snatched their kids away.”

“I think most Trost parents would be hard pressed to go that far,” Armin says drily, but he trails off at the end of his sentence, his voice soft and quiet.

“Still,” Sasha says, picking at her nails, “keeping us here during a- an investigation?”

“They must think we’re not in any danger,” Jean mutters.

“On the contrary,” Armin says, glancing up at the group, “it could mean that they think someone at Trost did it.”

They’ve hardly had a moment to process Armin’s words before Miss Brzenska approaches their table, a clipboard in one hand, a pen under the other.

“Some of you will be interviewing with Detective Smith,” she says, glancing down at her list, “and some of you will be with Detective Ackerman.”

She pauses. “Mikasa, do you know him?”

Mikasa glowers. “No.”

“Well, they’ve split up the interviews to maximize their time, as I understand it,” she continues. “I will escort you to each location, where you will remain for the full length of the interview process, in case they desire to pull you back in. Actually…”

She trails off, then glances up and settles her searching gaze on Reiner and Bertholdt.

“You two,” she says.

Reiner grimaces. “Gee, us?”

“You two are good to go,” she says. She twists her pen and crosses something out on her clipboard. “The police don’t need to speak with you again.”

She gives them a small smile, but her eyes are dark. “I suppose that means you two can enjoy your afternoon off, although we’re still on lockdown, of course. Someone will escort you to your dormitory.”

They don’t look nearly as relieved as she seems to think they should be.

“Gee,” Reiner exclaims, “great.”

“Yeah,” Bertholdt murmurs, “that’s swell.”

The dormitory is still and solemn when they return that afternoon. There has always been something strange about seeing this room empty; it usually buzzes with the hum of a busy morning, or is otherwise a quiet place for sleeping bodies at rest. Today, however, Reiner and Bertholdt find themselves completely alone in the still, octagonal room, and the air feels strange. Reiner lingers at the front of the room as the door falls shut behind them. He rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, and the floorboards creak in response. He shoves his hands in his pockets and glances around, restless. Bertholdt, on the other hand, immediately heads for his bed and collapses back onto it. The mattress groans beneath his weight as he rolls over onto his stomach and stuffs his face into a pillow.

Reiner steps towards him. He sits down on his own bed, staring across the aisle at Bertholdt, who is quiet for a moment before he realizes he’s being watched. His head peeks up, and his brown eyes peer over the pillow at Reiner.

“What?” he asks, his voice muffled.

Reiner shrugs as he kicks his shoes off. “Nothing,” he says. “Just trying to gauge your mood.”

Bertholdt’s eyes darken. “It’s been a week.”

Reiner pulls his hands out of his pockets and leans forward, setting his elbows against his knees. “I know,” he murmurs.

“They’re talking to everyone else in our class,” Bertholdt says, propping his chin up on his pillow, “except us.”

“They’re not talking to Annie,” Reiner mutters. “Wherever the hell she is.”

“Don’t you think that’s strange, Reiner?” Bertholdt says. His head is turned to face Reiner, but he’s not looking at him, instead letting his gaze fall to the Bible that sits on the small nightstand between their beds. “Why would they not talk to us again?”

“They’ve already talked to us twice, Bert,” Reiner says. “That’s probably all it is.”

“They’ve talked to _me_ twice,” Bertholdt says. “You just got scolded.”

He pauses, his gaze falling out of focus. Then he blinks, and he glances up at Reiner, suddenly alert again.

“They’ve already made up their minds about us,” he says softly. “That’s what this means, right? What do you think they’re asking everyone else? Do you think they’re talking to them about us?”

“I don’t know,” Reiner says. He rubs his eyes. “I don’t think there’s any point in worrying about it now. After everyone gets back, we can ask them…”

“The dean didn’t say anything about Annie,” Bertholdt says. He drops his head back down onto the pillow and stares at Reiner. “What do you think that means? Shouldn’t it be of concern to her students that two of their classmates went missing and now one of them has turned up dead-?”

He cuts himself off, snapping his eyes shut. He’s silent for a moment, still, then he sucks in a deep breath and lets it out with a shudder. Reiner watches him; he breathes quietly, softly, there is something uneasy in his body, the way he curls his arms up under himself and buries his head deeper into the pillow. Reiner’s fingers itch to reach out and touch him; so he does. He leans across the aisle and brushes a hand through Bertholdt’s dark hair, brushing it back from his forehead.

Bertholdt flinches, and his eyes flutter open. Their gazes meet for a moment: Bertholdt startled, Reiner gentle.

“Reiner,” Bertholdt says softly, a warning.

Reiner pauses. “Everyone’s at the interviews,” he says.

“They could be back any minute,” Bertholdt mutters. He hesitates, then adds, “Do you not remember-?”

“I know,” Reiner says, his voice low. He pulls his hand back.

Bertholdt closes his eyes again. Reiner turns away, glancing across the room. The space seems so vast when it’s not filled with grumbling students. The curtain on the other side of the room have been drawn open despite the dismal day outside, and whatever sunlight is available shines through, casting a tired grey light over the dark wood floor. Reiner lets his gaze travel, and without thinking about it, he finds himself looking past Bertholdt to the bed on his immediate left: Marco’s bed. The covers have been pulled up, neat and straight, since last week. There’s a nightstand between his and Bertholdt’s beds, like the one Bertholdt and Reiner share, but it’s hardly used. Bertholdt keeps his few personal belongings in the bottom drawer of their nightstand, and Marco was never one to collect clutter. All he kept there was-

Reiner sits up, a sudden sinking realization in his stomach. He plunges a hand into his left hand pocket and there it is. He’d forgotten, _again_ , even if it was just for a few hours. He was hoping he had dreamed it, but it’s there and it’s real and he can feel it between his fingers.

Slowly, he pulls the pin from his pocket and brings it into the daylight. It shines, silver and gold. Reiner stares at it for a moment, hardly breathing. Across the aisle, Bertholdt stirs, and Reiner curls his palm shut, trapping the pin inside his fist. He glances up. Bertholdt’s eyes are still closed. Reiner watches him as his mind race. He shouldn’t say anything. It can’t matter that much. He shouldn’t tell Bertholdt. He’s not sure Bertholdt can handle it. But things have changed, and now that they’ve found Marco’s body…

Will it matter? The police don’t know: how could they? But- well, the interviews. It always comes back to the interviews. There are eyewitnesses from that night, even if no one yet knows what they were witnessing. But the boys were all in the dormitory when Marco left for prefect duty. They all saw him put it on. If the police know that he had it, then they know that they should find it on his body, but- they’re not going to find it, and then they’ll wonder-

“Bertholdt,” Reiner says suddenly.

Bertholdt opens his eyes. His gaze is sullen and tired, but he gives Reiner his attention anyways. “What?” he asks softly.

Reiner hesitates. He has to tell him. He has a right to know. And they can still fix it. They can get rid of it together. They’re in this together.

“I have something to tell you,” he says. “Actually, something to show you.”

Bertholdt furrows his brow and sits up. “What?”

Without a word, Reiner unfurls his hand and holds out his palm.

“What is that?” Bertholdt says, squinting. “What…”

He leans in. Reiner’s hand shakes, and suddenly he wishes that he could pull his arm away and shove his hand back into his pocket, and then they would never have to talk about this again. But it’s too late now. He can’t go back from this.

Bertholdt leans in closer. “Is that…?” he asks, and then suddenly he falls very quiet.

There, lying perfectly still in the palm of Reiner’s outstretched hand, is Marco’s prefect pin.

“Where did you get that?” Bertholdt breathes.

“I found it,” Reiner says. “I picked it up.”

The room is suddenly so small.

Bertholdt stares at him. “Tell me this is a joke,” he whispers.

Reiner swallows. “I don’t know why I took it,” he says. “I just- I think it fell off him when, you know, and I just- I took it, I didn’t think it would matter, because I didn’t think the police would ever find him.”

Bertholdt says nothing.

He stares at the pin his Reiner’s hand, his face frozen; his eyes are wide, his eyebrows raised in two crooked arches. His mouth hangs open slightly. The longer he stares, the farther his jaw falls. He draws a hand up and lets it hover over Reiner’s outstretched palm. For a moment, it seems as if he’s going to reach out and touch the pin with his trembling fingers. Then he jerks his hand back and clasps it over his mouth.

Reiner’s fingers instinctively curl back up around the pin. “Bert,” he says. “Look, don’t overreact-”

“Are you out of your mind?” Bertholdt exclaims.

Reiner blinks. “Bert-”

“You just picked it up?” he exclaims. “I- what do you mean, you found it? It was just- lying next to his dead body, and you _picked it up_?”

“I wasn’t going to leave it there,” Reiner says. “The police would have found it.”

Bertholdt stares at him. “So you kept it instead?”

“I didn’t mean to keep it,” Reiner says. The pin feels heavy in his hand, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the look on Bertholdt’s face. “I put it in my pocket, and I forgot about it until we got back, but I- look, I’m going to get rid of it now.”

“Oh, my God,” Bertholdt exclaims, standing. He runs a hand through his hair and paces away from the beds, then back, where he stops and breathes heavily.

“We have to end this, Reiner,” he exclaims. “I can’t- _God_ , I can’t go on like this. You have to stop pretending like this is all so normal!”

Reiner furrows his brow as he stands. “We are ending this,” he says. “That’s why we’re getting rid of this _thing_ -” He holds out his hand with the pin in it, and Bertholdt steps back, his jaw clenching as he looks at Reiner.

“So _what_?” Bertholdt exclaims, his voice strangled. “So we dump it somewhere, and then the police find it, and then they know for certain that someone at the school did this, and it will only be a matter of time before they narrow it down to us.”

“We can destroy it,” Reiner offers.

Bertholdt lets out a frustrated sigh, a hand clenching at his hair. “We can’t destroy it, Reiner, it’s _metal_. Do you have a secret forge somewhere on campus that could melt a metal badge-?”

“Fine,” Reiner exclaims, “then we’ll put it back with Marco’s things. He kept it in his drawer in the nightstand, didn’t he? You shared that nightstand with him, isn’t that where he kept it? We say that he forgot to put it on that night-”

“We all sat here and watched him get ready for prefect duty,” Bertholdt exclaims, his eyes wide. “We were all here, and Connie made fun of him for being so strict about his uniform requirement, remember? Besides, they’ve already searched his things…”

He trails off, brushing past Reiner to collapse back onto his bed and bury his head in his hands. Reiner stands awkwardly, hovering in between their beds. The pin shines in his hand. Gingerly, he sets it down on the nightstand between their beds, then sits back down across from Bertholdt.

“So what do we do?” he asks softly. “You said we have to end this? What do we do?”

Bertholdt lies motionless. A moment passes, then another, and Reiner looks away, sighing. There’s another minute or so of silence, and then Bertholdt sits up, drawing a hand across his tired face. When he looks up, his eyes are empty.

“I don’t know what you’re going to do, Reiner,” he says.

His voice is hollow, but it fills the room from wall to wall, and his solemn words ring in Reiner’s ears.

“But you’ll have to figure that out on your own,” he says. He stands, pulling his tie back into place, and swallows. “Because I’m done with you and with all of this.”

Reiner watches him with wide eyes. “Bertholdt,” he says.

Bertholdt steps past him. “It’s over.”

The door clatters against the wall when it closes after Bertholdt, and suddenly Reiner is so, so alone.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The police are closing in, and an unexpected encounter hits home for Reiner.

“Jungle” by X Ambassadors

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/MBKj/)

“Ain’t no god on my streets in the heart of the jungle”

\--

They are here again, in the chapel: the old rafters hanging over their heads, the sunrise falling in beams across their feet, their hands stiff and cold against the Bibles in their grasps. The chapel is filled wall to wall, and the pews are bursting. Students fill the seats, their ties straightened solemnly, but a crowd of others press into the room, squeezing against the walls to hear the preacher: teachers, staff, and policemen. From where he sits near the front, Reiner watches them. He can hear the preacher speaking, sharing what words of comfort he can in a time like this, but the sermon is drowned out by the thoughts that overwhelm Reiner’s mind. He has so many questions, but not enough time or space to ask them all. He glances around. Between bowed heads and murmuring lips, his gaze is drawn back to the people standing on the far wall, closest to the pulpit. The teachers watch the preacher solemnly, their expressions drawn tight; they seem lost, confused. He supposes they should be. He wonders what they wonder. Do they talk, like the students do? Do they wonder what happened to Marco? Do they have their theories and their suspects?

He feels his skin prickle, suddenly. He glances back sharply. Behind the teachers, leaning against the wall in silence, stand two police officers. They stare at him. His heart skips a beat. Their gazes linger for only a moment more before they realize that he’s noticed them, and then they turn their eyes back to the preacher, their expressions still and emotionless.

\--

The bell tolls across campus for several long, silent minutes after the students have returned to their dormitories. Sunday morning after chapel is usually when they begin their cleaning chores, but normal activities have been suspended in the midst of the investigation. Rumors grow stronger everyday, with students whispering that the school will surely be closed now, despite what the dean told them last night.

“Two students have gone missing,” Thomas exclaims from the other side of the dormitory. He whacks a shirt furiously into the air and folds it into crisp lines, but he is the only one who shows any signs of movement. The other students watch him from their beds or ignore him entirely. “One of them was found dead in the woods, and they expect us to stay here?”

“Shut the hell up, Thomas,” Jean grumbles from beneath his pillow.

The teachers have always told them _idle hands are the devil’s workshop_ , but in the chaos of the weekend, they seem have to forgotten to occupy their students. Reiner sits on the edge of his bed, watching a squabble unfold, and an uneasy feeling works its way back into his gut. It never left for more than a moment, not since his argument with Bertholdt last night. He glances across the aisle to Bertholdt’s bed. He’s deeply engrossed in his Bible, or at least in flipping the pages back and forth to create a breeze across his face. If he knows that Reiner is watching him, then he does not care enough to look up.

“No, I’m not going to sit here while there’s a murderer on the loose,” Thomas exclaims, breaking Reiner’s reverie.

“How do you know there’s a murderer?” Connie snorts from where he sits at the windowsill.

“Someone is dead, and-”

“Come on, he wasn’t murdered.”

“You think he killed himself?” Eren exclaims, jolting up in bed. Last night he hobbled back in from the infirmary, his sprained ankle wrapped tightly, and he’s been restless all day, snapping up from his bed rest at any sign of excitement.

“It doesn’t matter! I’m not going to lay in wait while sinful thoughts parade themselves at this school!”

Reiner stands, suddenly, abruptly, and starts for the door, pinching the ache that sits just behind his eyes. He passes by Armin, and Armin puts his book down for a moment, glancing up with narrowed eyes.

“Where are you going?” he asks, his gaze following Reiner out the door.

“Just to the bathroom,” Reiner mumbles, and he lets the door fall shut behind him.

His footsteps echo as he trudges into the bathroom. He lingers in the doorway, staring at the gritty white tiles, and his rolled sleeves fall past his elbows, slipping back down to his wrists in folded clumps. One of the stall doors creaks, and he glances up, alarmed. But it’s just settling. This old building does that.

He rubs the back of his hand against his eyes and crosses the bathroom to the line of sinks that divide the stalls from the showers. He stares at himself in the mirror. His eyes are heavy and dark, weighed down by purple bags of wrinkled skin. The blue tie around his neck sits askew, and he’s sweating through the white of his shirt even though it’s barely midday. He takes a deep breath. He’s been here so many times in the last few days, wondering when his face got so thin, convincing himself that he had nothing to do with any of this. And yet, he feels like he has not been _here_ in so long. With a sick twist in his stomach, he realizes that it has been exactly one week: one week, tonight.

He lets out a shaky breath and fumbles in his pocket for the prefect pin. He’s been carrying it there, too afraid to leave it behind. It had become so normal that he had almost forgotten that it was there, but now it weighs heavy in his hand, like a sinking anchor. Bertholdt was right. Of course, he was right, and Reiner doesn’t know why he didn’t listen. He doesn’t even know why he took the damn thing, but he should have gotten rid of it earlier, thrown it into the woods or stuffed it back into Marco’s drawer when no one was looking. He holds it up to the light now, lets the yellow glow of the bulb fall over it. It’s gold all the way round, save the blue stripe that shines from one corner of the crest to the other; but the edges are faded and used, tarnished from the hands of its owners. The junior prefect before Marco had this badge, and the one before him too. Now…

Reiner turns it over, examining the thin clasp on the back. He should flush it. Even if they pull it out of the pipes, they probably won’t be able to lift his fingerprints.

The door swings open suddenly, and Reiner fumbles to shove the pin back into his pocket before anyone rounds the corner and sees it in his hand. The gold badge flies out of his slippery hands. It bounces against the rim of the faucet with a soft _clink_ , falls into the bowl of the sink where it rolls in circles for a moment before promptly disappearing down the drain. Reiner leans over the sink, staring after it with wide eyes. It’s gone.

“Braun,” the intruder barks, and Reiner jumps back from the sink, flattening the petrified expression on his face.

Detective Levi stands near the door, his hands shoved in the pockets of his suit pants. His dark gaze flickers from Reiner, to the sink, then back. “What are you doing?” he asks.

Reiner tries to smile, but it comes out like a grimace. “Nothing. Just checking myself out.”

Levi rolls his eyes, then turns towards the door, gesturing for Reiner to follow him. “Come on,” he says. “We’ve got another interview to do.”

Reiner’s blood runs cold. “I thought I was done with interviews.”

“You thought wrong. Let’s go.”

“But yesterday-”

“Yesterday,” Levi interjects, holding the door open, “we learned some new information, which led us to decide that we’ve got another interview to do.”

He looks at Reiner, his face blank, and gestures for him to file out the door. Reiner’s heart sits in his stomach. He knew that the police weren’t going to leave any time soon, but he had thought, at the very least, that they were done with him. He follows Levi cautiously out the door and is led quietly back downstairs to the office in the front hall. The room is bare when he enters. Before, there was always a detective sitting on the other side of the table, digging through a mound of papers or taking diligent, messy notes. But today, the room is empty. He steps inside past Levi, who closes the door and starts for the other side of the room.

“Sit down,” he says without looking at Reiner. He opens the door in the corner, the one that leads to the adjacent office, and slams it behind him, leaving Reiner alone in the small room. He looks around: dark walls, dark floors, a single light overhead. There isn’t even a clock. If they’re trying to let him boil, to build the pressure until he breaks on his own accord, then they’ve started in the right place.

Reiner sighs and takes a seat. It is a little nerve-wracking, sitting alone in the silence. But he remembers his alibi and he remembers how to tell it. If he can just put everything else out of his mind- he closes his eyes. Bertholdt’s horrified face keeps coming back to him. He opens his eyes, glances around the room, forcing himself to breathe in and out. He doesn’t know anything. He’s sorry for lying the first time, but nothing has changed since then. Levi said they had gotten new information, but he can’t imagine what it could be, what else they could possibly have to ask him. He should prepare for the worst, then. Maybe they found his fingerprints. Maybe someone saw something and kept quiet about it until now. Maybe they’re really after Bertholdt and they just brought him in to see if he would rat on his friend.

The door in the corner opens again. Detective Smith steps into the room, a thick folder in his hand. The empty sleeve of his right arm is pinned back, and his tie hangs almost as loosely as Reiner’s. He looks hot: his cheeks red and his hair pushed back, like he’s just come in from outside. He’s followed by the small frame of Officer Ral, who staggers under the weight of a large cardboard box that she drops onto the table with a resounding thud. It lands just before Reiner, and he winces at the noise it makes. Ral turns and leaves the room without a word. Detective Levi, who has been lingering in the doorway, steps aside to let her pass. He leans against the door to close it, his hands still shoved in his pockets.

“Reiner Braun,” Smith says, reading his name off the top of a folder. He sits down across from Reiner, flipping through the first few pages in the folder. Then he glances up. “How are you?”

Reiner remains steel-faced, but inside he’s still wondering what this is all about. “Fine,” he says.

“Good,” Smith says, nodding. “That’s good to hear.”

Without looking up from the folder, he reaches into the cardboard box on the table and pulls out a yellow notepad. He clicks his pen, glances up, and begins writing. “So, Reiner,” he says. “Detective Ackerman told you why you’re here.”

Reiner raises an eyebrow. “His name is Ackerman, too?”

“Not the point,” Levi barks from the corner of the room. He’s got a Yankee accent that Reiner has never quite noticed before, maybe because he has never heard it so aggressively. Smith, on the other hand, has the kind of clean, crisp pronunciation of someone who grew up between north and south, neither here nor there. Reiner does wonder, for a moment, what their story is: how did they end up in the Deep South? But he puts the thought out of his mind as Smith starts talking again.

“Levi told you why you’re here,” Smith repeats.

“He said there was new information in the case,” Reiner says. He glances up at Levi, who glowers at him from the back of the room, where he’s leaning against the wall with a sour look on his face.

“And in light of that new information,” Smith says, looking up from his notes, “we have decided that we need to ask you a few more questions.”

Those words linger in the air for a moment as the detective scratches something in the notepad. When he looks up, Reiner stares at him expectantly.

“What else could you have to ask me?” Reiner says. He tries to smile, like he’s making a joke, but it comes off weak and half-hearted and they all know it. “I feel like we’ve been over everything, sir.”

“We’re not here to talk about your alibi again,” Smith says. “That’s been said and done. Today, I’m interested in talking about Annie D'Arcy.”

Reiner’s eyebrows rise. “Annie?”

“She’s still missing,” Smith says, “as you should be aware. We’re doing our best to locate her.”

The burning question remains in Reiner’s head: what’s the new information? Did someone say something about Annie? Did they find something? He swallows, tries to breathe, tries to put it out of his mind.

“Sure,” he says softly. “I’d like to help.”

Smith nods. “Let’s start by talking about your relationship with Annie,” he says. “Were you close with her?”

The question is laughable. “No,” Reiner says, shaking his head. “She was pretty much a loner.”

“So, you wouldn’t call her a friend?”

“No,” Reiner says again.

“Who were her closest friends at school, that you know of?” Smith asks, steadying the pen in his hand.

Reiner pauses. “Uh, like I said, she spent most of her time on her own.”

“But if you had to name those closest to her…”

“I don’t know,” Reiner says. “She probably spent the most time with Eren and Armin, although I don’t think she and Mikasa got along very well.”

“Why’s that?” Smith asks.

Reiner’s not sure how to describe it other than to say that Mikasa once threw a chair at Annie after her knee collided with Eren’s face during a particularly vicious game of kickball last year. “You know how girls are,” he says flatly.

Smith takes the time to write that down in his notes, while Reiner fidgets, avoiding the intense gaze that Levi has fixed on him. Surely they’ve heard all of this from other students. Why him all of a sudden?

“In the last few days,” Smith starts, looking up, “was Annie acting any differently? In your interactions with her, did she seem different from her usual self?”

“Well, sure,” Reiner says. “Everyone’s been acting different.”

“But she didn’t stand out to you.”

“No.”

“Did anyone else?”

His stomach curls. “No,” he says. Should he lie? “Maybe-”

He cuts himself off.

Smith raises an eyebrow. “Maybe…?”

Reiner clears his throat. “Maybe Jean.”

“He was good friends with Marco,” Smith says, glancing back down to his notes.

Reiner nods. “Yes, sir.”

“But you have not noticed anyone else acting strangely,” Smith says, flipping back in his notes. “What have you heard from the other students? Does anyone have any ideas that may be helpful to us?”

“I heard from the girls that she didn’t leave anything behind,” Reiner says, “unlike Marco, who…” He trails off. “Mostly everyone thinks that she ran away.”

Smith nods. “Another student told us a rumor that Annie ran away because she was pregnant.”

Reiner sputters.

“Christ, Erwin,” Levi mutters from the back corner. “Don’t be so vulgar.”

“My apologies,” Smith says. “We heard a rumor that Annie may have been, ah, expecting.”

“Uh, yeah, I heard that too,” Reiner says, scratching his head.

“Do you think there could be any truth to that rumor?”

Reiner grimaces. “I don’t think so, sir.”

Smith smiles at him. “You seem certain.”

It’s unnerving, the way he bares his white teeth like that. “Like I said,” Reiner repeats, “she was mostly alone. I can’t imagine, I mean, you know.”

“Can you see any connection between Marco and Annie’s cases?” Smith asks. “Or do you think this is a coincidence?”

Reiner pauses, his hands crossed together on top of the table. He could tell the police that Annie ran away, and he could just leave out the part about her blackmail. If he’s honest and forthcoming, maybe it will paint him in a better light. But, then, they’ll wonder why he hasn’t said anything before. And if they’ve already asked Bertholdt the same question…

“I don’t see a connection,” Reiner lies. “Marco and Annie hardly knew each other.”

“So you think it’s a coincidence?”

Reiner blinks. “No,” he says slowly, carefully. “I do think it’s strange for two students to go missing in the same week. But, like I said, I can’t see any connection between Annie and Marco other than that they were both Trost students.”

“Perhaps that is the only connection,” Smith muses, scratching something down in his notes.

In the corner, Levi shifts his position, catching Reiner’s eye. But Reiner looks away just as quickly, his throat clenching. What is Levi here for, anyways? To be the guard dog?

“You said you didn’t know Annie that well,” Smith says, looking up.

“Yes, sir,” Reiner says.

Smith watches him for a moment, then gives a small _hmm_ and turns back to his notes. He’s smiling still, if only lightly; but his face betrays no emotion, no reflection on what he thinks of Reiner’s response. Reiner stares at him as he makes marks in his notes, a stiff silence settling over the room. He waits for as long as he can bear it. But Smith doesn’t look up, and Levi doesn’t say anything; so Reiner clears his throat.

“Sir,” he says, trying to sound firm.

Smith glances up at him with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt,” Reiner says.

“No, continue.”

“Detective Levi said there was new information that you needed to discuss with me,” Reiner says, his gaze flicking up to Levi. He looks back towards Smith. “But we haven’t gotten to it yet.”

“No, we haven’t,” Smith says with a smile. “I think it’s about time we address that.”

He pushes his notes to the side and sets his pen down gingerly on top of them. He closes the folder that sits before him, but Reiner catches a glimpse of his own identification photograph inside: it’s his student file. He looks up to meet Smith’s cool gaze.

“We have heard from other students,” Smith starts, “that you were, in fact, friends with Annie D'Arcy.”

Reiner furrows his brow. He wants to laugh. “What?”

“We have multiple students on record claiming that you and Mr. Hoover spent an unusual amount of time in her company in the days leading up to her disappearance.”

His heart pounds. “Who said that?”

Sasha said something to him about Annie yesterday. Jean and Connie could have seen her burning her files. Bertholdt was right. If they were overheard once, who’s to say it couldn’t happen twice? If someone saw, who’s to say someone couldn’t have heard?

“It’s of little consequence,” Smith says, immediately dismissing his question. “The fact is, you were friends with Annie.”

“ _Friend_ is a strong word,” Reiner starts to say, but he’s cut off by a scoff from the corner.

“Face it, kid,” Levi grumbles. His jaw clicks. “You lied to us. Again.”

“I-” Reiner stutters.

Smith holds up a hand. “That’s enough, Levi,” he says softly, glancing over his shoulder. He looks back to Reiner. “Let’s not debate semantics. After all, whose place is it to determine a friendship? Certainly not the place of the onlooker.”

Reiner’s head buzzes. “Okay,” he says blankly.

“But it would be helpful for us to know the true nature of your relationship with Miss D'Arcy,” Smith says. “No detail is too small to be dismissed in a missing juvenile investigation.”

Reiner hesitates for a moment, glancing back and forth between the detectives. What the hell does he say? It’s not like they know about the blackmail or anything. The fact that he’s been seen with Annie recently- well, it’s surprising to hear from his fellow students, but it’s not exactly the bombshell he was expecting.

He clears his throat again. “I guess we did spend more time together recently,” he says. “But- I’ve been spending more time with everyone this week. People don’t like to be alone in grief.”

“In grief, yes,” Smith says. “It’s important to have a stable support network in trying times such as these. That’s why we called your parents this morning.”

Reiner’s heart stops.

“It’s standard procedure in the juvenile division,” Smith says nonchalantly. His hand sits idly on the table, two of his fingers moving in a gentle rhythm. “It’s nothing to worry about.”

 _Nothing to worry about_.

“What did they say?” Reiner says. His voice cracks.

Smith raises an eyebrow. “Hm?”

Reiner takes a breath. “What did my parents say?”

It occurs to him a moment too late that the question he should be asking is _what did you say to my parents_? He assumed too soon that the detectives told his parents he was being apprehended for a murder investigation. It’s entirely possible that they left out that bit, that they just said he’s being called in as a witness, that he may have to testify if the case goes any further. It’s entirely possible that they didn’t call his parents at all. Maybe this was just a trap to get him to confess to something.

“Oh, your parents?” Smith asks. “They didn’t seem surprised.”

Reiner’s heart clenches in his chest, and his entire body feels tight suddenly, like he’s going to burst. But he hardly has a moment to unfreeze, to slow down, before Smith is drumming his fingers against the table again.

“Now,” he says, pulling Reiner’s student file back in front of him, “I’d like to talk more about your interactions with Annie D'Arcy in her last days at Trost…”

“I think we get the picture, Erwin,” Levi says suddenly from the back of the room. He uncrosses his arms, slipping his hands into his pockets, and as he steps forward, the light from above slashes across his face, casting long lines of shadows from his jaw to his temple. “They weren’t really friends, but grief brings people together in mysterious ways. I want to hear about something else.”

Smith leans back in his chair as Levi slowly approaches the table. “What do you want to hear about, Levi?” he asks, glancing up.

Their banter is quick and witty, back and forth between their mouths as Reiner watches with a fire slowly growing in his stomach. Levi stares at Reiner for a long moment before turning his back to the table. He leans against it, crosses his arms, and glances down to Smith.

“I want to hear about him and the other one,” he says in a low voice.

“Good call," Smith says.

He smiles up at Levi, then turns to Reiner with the same pleasant façade.

“Mr. Braun,” he says, “tell us about your relationship with Bertholdt Hoover.”

Their stern gazes bore into him: Smith staring straight into his eyes, Levi glancing over his shoulder with a disdainful gaze, glancing from his hands to his face. The light overhead feels increasingly like a spotlight, and every moment that Reiner hesitates to respond is a moment that gives them exactly what they want. They didn’t get to this question by accident. They are on to something, and they all know it. That’s why they’re asking. They’re trying to shock him. If he panics, if he acts like it’s a weird question, then that means that they’re digging in the right direction and they’ll just keep digging until he gives in. He can’t let them know. He can’t-

He swallows, letting his chest heave and fall in a deep breath. “What do you want to know?” he asks.

Smith flips through the pages in Reiner’s folder, letting them whisk through his fingers and fall flat against the table. “Tell us how you and Bertholdt met.”

Reiner is starkly, acutely aware that this thread is going to start (and end) on a dangerously bad note. “We met in detention,” he mutters.

“Here, at Trost?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Our first year,” Reiner says. He swallows. “We were fourteen.”

“And you were fast friends,” Smith muses, looking at Reiner’s file, “judging by how many of these detentions I see were handed out as punishments for breaking school rules together.”

Reiner pauses, mulling over his words. “I guess,” he says. “You have to make fast friends in a place like this.”

Levi gives a derisive _hmph_ and looks away.

“A place like this,” Smith echoes. “What does that mean?”

“A place that,” Reiner starts to say. He stops: _a place that will tear you apart_. “I just mean that if you don’t find a safety net fast, you’ll be alone for the rest of your time here.”

“It sounds like high school hasn’t changed,” Smith says, and Levi turns to look at him, scowling.

“I thought I told you to cut the crap,” he mutters.

“I’m getting there, Levi,” Smith says in a steady, patient voice. “I want to hear his side of the story.”

“I don’t,” Levi grumbles. He casts a scowl over his shoulder at Reiner. “I want to hear why Marco Bodt had to die.”

“What?” Reiner exclaims.

“Come on,” Levi scoffs. “You and Hoover are as thick as thieves, and you’ve taken an awful big part in this investigation. You think I’m stupid enough to believe that you had nothing to do with this?”

“What are you talking about?” Reiner exclaims, leaning back from the table. “I didn’t have _anything_ to do with this.”

“Maybe not alone,” Levi says. He rises to his feet, crossing his arms, and moves to stand at the end of the table, behind the cardboard box. The low-hanging light circles overhead like a menace.

“You and Hoover were working together, weren’t you?” he asks, staring Reiner down. “Did you two get together and plan how you were going to kill him?”

“What?” Reiner exclaims, sputtering. He glances instinctively to Smith, asking for help without realizing it. But Smith’s whole demeanor has changed. He leans forward, his eyes hard and dark, his jaw firm. He says nothing as Levi steps in closer. Reiner’s heart pounds in his chest. So this was the plan all along. They set a trap for him and he walked right into it.

“How did it happen, huh?” Levi asks. “A pipe? A baseball bat? Or maybe just the sheer force of your fists? Did you lure him out to the swamp in the middle of the night just so you could crush his skull?”

“God, no,” Reiner exclaims.

“What was it? What did Marco do that was so bad that he had to die?”

“We didn’t kill him,” Reiner yells.

Levi lunges forward and shoves the cardboard box off the end of the table. It flies straight past Reiner, who winces and swears under his breath. It slams into the wall and drops against the floor with a phenomenal _boom_. Reiner sucks in a deep breath, just as Levi leans in towards him, his hands set across the corners of the table, and stares Reiner in the eye.

“Let me tell you what I think,” he growls.

Reiner sits, frozen, pushed all the way back in his seat, his hands clenched at the edge of the table as he waits with bated breath. Levi leans in.

“I think you had to get rid of him,” Levi says, his voice thick with disgust. “I think he knew something, and you had to put him out of his misery to shut him up. He was a real hard-ass for the rules, wasn’t he?”

“He was a prefect,” Reiner mutters.

“A good prefect, the way I hear it. He was on his way to reformation, unlike the rest of you hoodlums.”

His jaw clicks. “So, what did he know, huh? What was so bad that you had to kill him to cover it up? Maybe you and Hoover really were smoking out in the gardens that night, but that sounds like a load of horseshit to me. What do you think they were really doing that night, Erwin? Do you think it was drugs?”

Detective Smith leans back in his chair, cocking his head to one side as he stares at Reiner from across the table. “No, I think it was worse than that, Levi,” he says. “I think there was a girl there.”

Reiner sits forward. “What the hell-”

“That would be a real shame on your families, wouldn’t it?” Smith says, cutting him off. “If the word got out that you’d been fooling around…”

“Maybe you’re right, Erwin,” Levi says. His gaze slides back to Reiner. “Then again, maybe there wasn’t a girl at all. Maybe it was just-”

“Stop it!” Reiner yells.

The room freezes.

Reiner stares between them. He doesn’t meet their eyes.

“I’m not saying anymore without an attorney present,” he mutters: a line he had been taught but never thought he would need to use.

Levi pulls back, standing up right and slipping his hands back into his pockets. A scowl crosses his face, and he glances sideways to Smith. Smith watches Reiner for a moment more. Reiner doesn’t meet his eyes, but he can feel his gaze lingering. Then he piles up his notes and his folders, stands abruptly from his chair, and disappears through the back door without a word.

“You can go,” Levi grumbles when the door slams.

Reiner stands immediately. His chair squeals as it slides back across the floor. He steps on something. He glances down; it’s a folder that fell out of the box Levi threw off the table.

“Go call your lawyer,” Levi says.

Reiner glances up, his brow furrowed.

Levi narrows his eyes. “We’ll be waiting.”

\--

The air feels different when he steps out of the small room. His head is tight, his heart is frantic, and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. He lets the door fall shut behind himself. He stands, a lone figure against the wall, his quick breaths echoing up and down the expanse of the front hall. He glances towards the main door. His stomach tightens. Two police officers stand in front of the door, their eyes fixed on him. He thinks of the policemen he saw in the chapel this morning, He swallows, his mouth dry. They’ve had eyes on him all day.

With a renewed panic in his footsteps, he scurries out of the front hall, following the doorway beneath the stairs out into the long, central corridor. He crosses past open windows where sunbeams fall, headed straight for the south wing, where the stairs will lead him back up to the dormitories. He rounds the corner and slams right into Ymir. He stumbles backwards, clutching the sore nose that just whacked right into her forehead. She blinks up at him, scowling.

“Jesus Christ,” Ymir hisses. She rubs at the red spot on her forehead. “God, what’s wrong with you?”

“Sorry,” he exclaims. “I’m in a hurry.”

“I can see that,” Ymir mutters, scowling. “Watch where you’re going next time.”

Reiner steps past her to keep going, but something stops him in his tracks. Halfway down the corridor, Historia is standing near the courtyard door, talking to someone or two sitting on the stone bench beneath the window. Her hands are folded politely before her, but her posture is awkward; she reaches up every few seconds to tuck her hair behind her ear, as if she cannot keep her hands still. Reiner furrows his brow. He does not recognize the people she’s talking to, but it’s a man and a woman, tastefully dressed.

“It’s fucked-up, isn’t it?” Ymir mutters over his shoulder. He glances at her, but she gestures him in Historia’s direction again.

“In a few weeks,” Ymir says, “our parents will be here to drag us home for the summer.”

He looks at her again, inquisitive, but her solemn look brings his realization to light. His stomach flips.

Ymir purses her lips. “His are here to bury him.”

From a distance, Reiner watches the couple. They are rigid and polite: head to toe in dark cotton with matching expressions of gravity. They listen as Historia speaks softly to them, but whether or not they’re interested in what she has to say is hard to tell. After a moment, the woman glances up, her dark eyes cool and solemn from behind her glasses. Her gaze lingers on Reiner and Ymir briefly before turning away. Her face is unwritten.

“Those are Marco’s parents,” Reiner murmurs.

Ymir turns away, leaning back against the wall. “They came all the way from Tennessee,” she says. “We were just on our way back from turning the laundry in, and we ran into them. I said my sorries and got out of there, but Historia’s too nice. She feels like she has to give them some kind of closure.”

She snorts. “She barely even knew him.”

They watch the conversation from a distance for another moment. Reiner feels numb. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, like lead, and although he wills his feet to move, they remain rooted to the ground. He wants nothing more than to disappear into routine, at least for today. He can’t count on what tomorrow holds. But Ymir said that she and Historia had been to the laundry, which means that Sunday chores have begun: there is something for him to put his mind to. Finally, he shifts his feet forward, ready to dart past Marco’s parents, down the side corridor, away from all of this.

Before he can move any further, Ymir nudges him in the side, her eyebrows raised. “You should go say something,” she mutters.

Reiner gives her a sharp look. “What?”

“You knew him, right?” she asks, shrugging. “You lived in the same room as him for three years.”

“I didn’t know him like that.”

“You knew him better than me and Historia combined, and- look, she’s holding his mother’s hand. That’s tragic. Come on, Braun, just say something about what a paragon of a prefect he was. Parents love that shit.”

“Ymir,” Reiner says. “I can’t.”

“They just need to hear something nice about their dead, reformed son.”

“I can’t,” Reiner repeats. “I told you, I’m in a hurry.”

“You don’t really seem like you’re in a hurry…”

“Oh! Reiner!”

The shout of relief comes from the end of the hallway. Historia, by the saving grace of a chance look over her shoulder, has spotted him. She waves furiously, a grin of desperation on her face, and the wave soon towards into a beckon. Ymir leans over to Reiner.

“She’s been making small talk for fifteen minutes,” she mutters. “Go help the girl.”

Reiner doesn’t move. “Why can’t you help her?”

“Because I’m rude,” Ymir says, “and not really the kind of person you show off to visiting parents. Historia’s trying to comfort them, not scare them.”

Still, he hesitates. He doesn’t know if he can look them in the eyes. The image of Marco’s swollen, bloodied face still lingers in the back of his mind. The ghost he saw, a few nights ago- it was just a delusion, he knows now, but it feels no less real, no less terrifying, and he doesn’t know if he can stomach the grief of Marco’s parents. But Historia is crossing towards him, nearly breaking into a sprint to run down the hall towards him.

“You lived with him,” she hisses as she approaches. “Come say something.”

Historia grabs him by the arm, and before Reiner can protest, she is dragging him down the corridor, forcing his feet into an awkward gallop to keep up with her desperate pace. She’s ever the good hostess, he thinks briefly before his mind goes black.

“I’m sorry for that interruption, Mr. and Mrs. Bodt,” he hears Historia say, winded. “I know you won’t be in town for very long, so I thought it would be good…”

She trails off.

“This is Reiner Braun,” she starts again, exclaiming. “He’s in our year. He, uh, he shared a dormitory with Marco.”

When his vision comes back into focus, a pair of deep brown eyes is the first thing he sees. His gaze flickers around, unsure, unsettled, but he keeps coming back to meet those serious eyes. Marco’s father is nondescript, just any well-dressed man off the street. He could be anyone. But Marco’s mother stares into him with a determined force, like she’s trying to read something out of him and hasn’t quite figured it out yet. It’s a gaze that is both familiar and disturbing. She peers at Reiner through the thick frames of her glasses, and her lips narrow in distaste the longer she looks. He’s a sight for sore eyes, and they all know it. But he can’t shake the feeling that that’s not all there is to her solemn gaze.

Historia steps on his feet. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she mutters from the corner of her mouth.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Reiner exclaims suddenly. He speaks too loudly, but he can’t think, can’t seem to get away from that gaze.

“Thank you, Mr. Braun,” Mr. Bodt says shortly. “We appreciate your condolences.”

“Reiner knew Marco well,” Historia says, a flat-out lie, but her tiny foot is pressing hard on his toes again, so he goes along with it, stumbling awkwardly through his words.

“We played chess,” Reiner says blankly. He leaves out the _sometimes._

“Where are you from, Reiner?” Mr. Bodt asks. “Miss Reiss was just telling me about her family’s summer home outside of Charleston.”

Reiner swallows. “I’m from Tallahassee, sir.”

“The gulf is swell this time of year, isn’t it? There’s nothing like a good ocean breeze.”

“No, sir,” Reiner says.

“Couldn’t agree more, sir,” Historia says.

“We just drove nine hours from Belle Meade and the heat was dreadful, wasn’t it?”

“Dreadful,” Marco’s mother repeats. She looks away.

It stings Reiner, then, why this conversation is so cripplingly strange, why Historia looked so awkward when he was watching from afar. Marco’s parents are distant and aloof. For all that Historia must have said about him, they have not mentioned their son at all.

“We should be going,” Reiner says suddenly. He feels Historia look at him sharply, but he ignores her. “We have chores to do.”

“Of course,” Marco’s father says. “We should be on our way as well. We have a meeting with the detectives in just a few minutes.”

Reiner’s throat clenches, and he steps out of the way to let them pass. When they’re gone, Historia glances up at him.

“They had to leave anyways,” he says before she can speak. “I should get back.”

“We’re going upstairs too,” Ymir says, bounding into the conversation, her arms folded over her chest. “Let’s walk and talk. I want to pick your brains.”

“About what?” Historia asks, pushing a lock of golden hair behind her ear. “If you’re going to start on _that_ again-”

“It’s not that,” Ymir says, shaking her head. “It’s about Annie.”

She stares at them expectantly, but neither of them say anything. Reiner starts for the south wing, dragging a tense hand over his tired face; Ymir follows closely at his heels, blowing a raspberry out an open window as they pass.

“Come on,” she says, “I thought y’all would have more to say about this.”

“You didn’t ask us a question,” Historia says as they pass under an arch.

“I didn’t think I had to. But since you’re demanding it, let me acquiesce: what happened to Annie?”

“What do you want, Ymir?” Reiner says, and it strikes him how exhausted he sounds, how low and worn his voice breathes from his throat. He pushes a hand back through his short hair. The corridor they’ve just passed into is long and dark, stone walls and stone floors, but the heat of the day is getting to him. He runs the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away a bead of sweat. “We don’t know any more than you do.”

“You have to have ideas,” Ymir says pointedly, staring at Reiner. “Let’s admit the obvious: you and Bert were closest to her.”

He grimaces. “We weren’t close.”

“I didn’t say you were close. I said you were closest.”

They round a corner to the staircase, and as they start to climb, their shoes tap in unsynchronized rhythm against the cool stone floor. Ymir walks faster, and she comes out ahead of Reiner as she reaches up to retie the black ribbon that’s loosely holding her hair in place. “It’s just weird, isn’t it?” she asks as they come to the top of the stairs. “The police can’t think these two things are related. That seems far-fetched.”

“Not to me,” Historia says, appearing out of the stairwell behind them. “How could they not be related?”

“How could they?” Ymir exclaims, whirling around to face her. “Marco vanished, but all his junk was left behind and he turned up dead. Annie, on the other hand, took all her shit with her, wherever she went. She _wanted_ to disappear. She even got her hands on her school files.”

Reiner stops and glances at Ymir. “How do you know that?”

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, please, like you haven’t heard that. It’s not exactly a secret. One of the fuzz let it slip to Armin, because, you know, those big round eyes could pry anything out of anyone. And he tries, but he can’t keep anything from Eren, you know that. And Eren can’t keep anything from anyone.”

Ymir keeps walking, and she leads them around another corner, into a long bright corridor lined with windows. “Armin told the police that you were in there, helping him sort some shit, and then you just sort of disappeared.”

“That’ll be the last time he lets anyone help him, then.”

“Come on, Reiner.”

“I was bored that day,” Reiner says absentmindedly. “Bertholdt was being interviewed, and I didn’t have anything better to do.”

Ymir snorts. “Yeah, okay. That sounds to me like you’re trying to hide something.”

Reiner wishes he had a cigarette, but Ymir’s familiar humor is easy to fall back into. “Only the truancy of my youth.”

“By youth, you mean, what, your sophomore year?”

“What can I say? I’ve grown up.”

Ymir slows down her pace to walk next to Historia, who is trailing behind them, silent and pensive. “What about you?” she asks, nudging her in the shoulder. “What do you think happened to Annie?”

“I don’t know,” Historia says wistfully. Her pace slows as she thinks, and she continues to trail behind, her gaze distant. “Annie is pretty tough.”

“Too tough to wind up like Marco?”

Historia sucks in a harsh breath at that comment. Reiner glances over his shoulder to watch her. Her hair is pulled back in a low ponytail, but stray strands fall carelessly over her shoulders, framing her pale face. She looks tired, worried. She hesitates to answer, pausing to try and push her hair back again; but it falls forward into her face and she just lets it hang there.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

Ymir’s shoes scuff against the ground as they walk. “He’s dead.”

“I know,” Historia exclaims, her voice harsh. But her words falter, and she stops suddenly, in the middle of the corridor. She stands there, staring forward blankly. Ymir pauses, turning around to look at her, and Reiner hesitates, lingering a few feet ahead of them.

“You don’t have to remind me at every turn,” Historia says finally, looking up at Ymir. I didn’t even know either of them that well, but I’m tired of this whole thing already. I wish they would just go ahead and close the school, for everyone’s sakes.”

Ymir raises an eyebrow. “You really want to go home?”

Historia purses her lips. “Well, I don’t want to stay here.”

She stalks past Ymir, past Reiner, and disappears around the corner. The echo of her shoes clicking furiously against the floor lingers for another moment, but soon that sound is gone too, and Ymir just turns to look at Reiner with wide eyes.

“Women,” she sighs.

“I’m gonna go too,” Reiner says instantly.

“I have one more question,” Ymir says, holding up a hand. “Do you think Marco killed himself?”

Reiner stares at her. “That’s a big question,” he says weakly.

Ymir shrugs, strolling further down the corridor. “Historia didn’t want to talk about it, but it’s what people have been saying. I didn’t know him that well, so I thought I might ask you.”

His heart thuds. “Why would I know something like that?”

“I dunno,” Ymir sighs. “But you did live with him for three years. Isn’t that the kind of thing you’d notice about a person?”

Reiner looks to the ground. “I don’t know.”

“You went down to the lake with Eren and them, right? Sasha said y’all saw them pull his body out of the water.”

He stares at the ground. “You could stand to beat around the bush a little more, Ymir.”

“I’m asking the questions nobody else wants to say out loud, but we’re all thinking it. I mean, half the girls are convinced that he jumped in the lake on purpose, for Christ’s sake. But it seems to me like that’s an awful lot of work.”

She slumps back against the wall with a sigh. “If you ask me, someone did it. He couldn’t have ended up in the swamp on his own accord. Someone killed him.”

She glances across the hallway at him. “I guess the question is, who?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HTscBtOTx70>


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reiner handles one confrontation, then another.

“Oh Darlin’ What Have I Done” by The White Buffalo

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/7Mju/)

“God himself will drop me from the sky  
and let me swing a while”

\--

Sunday afternoon is bleak and dull. Rain begins to pour in the tired hours between lunch and supper, and it does not cease until the sun has sunk beneath the hills that night. It is the beginning of the wet season, where one torrent of summer rain falls after another, but the students are no longer excited for their vacation. If anything, they are desperate for it: to get away from this place, to escape the valley and leave this behind them. But a sense of dread lingers in their stomachs, because they know the school will still be scarred come autumn.

The boys finish their afternoon chores in silence. The shock of Marco’s death has faded, and now they are left to question who could have done such a thing. They fold sheets and towels quietly, each of them glancing so often at the empty bed that sits unassuming in the middle of their lives. The bedding has been stripped away; only a mattress remains. A policeman had come through earlier to collect Marco’s belongings for his parents. The drawers of his nightstand still lie open, devoid of life. Reiner had passed the policeman on his way into the room, and the encounter had sent his heart racing for a moment. He had thought of Marco’s prefect badge: it’s golden edges glistening in the night, and he had wondered in the police even knew it was missing. Had they sent an officer to search his bunk while he was being interviewed? But the momentary panic had subsided when he stepped into the dormitory and found the boys calmly unpacking the fresh laundry. The afternoon was progressing as normally as it could.

Reiner fumbles with the pillowcases in his hands. He’s never been good at folding, but today he’s especially bad, his distracted gaze endlessly flickering back to Marco’s bed. His parents must be staying in town for the investigation, but he wonders what closure they will draw from it. They were so cold and distant when he spoke to them, hardly acknowledging that they had a son. Reiner’s throat clenches. He thinks of his own parents. He thinks of his mother and her solemn eyes. He thinks of how much he has disappointed her. The pillowcases end up wrinkled and uneven, but no one notices, and they are stacked in the closet with the rest of the clean linens.

The bell rings for dinner not long after they finish their chores; it is a solemn sound that echoes through the halls of Trost and summons its dwellers to another dissatisfying meal of questions and no answers. Reiner hesitates at the sound of the bell, unable to move his feet. He wishes he could crawl into bed and fall asleep or wake up: whichever would this nightmare. He rearranges the books on his nightstand as the other boys shuffle out the door, tugging their ties back into place as they head downstairs. He tries to look busy, to distract himself and the others. But it does not work. He feels someone stop at the end of his bed and watch him in silence. A shiver runs up his spine. Reiner does not have to turn around to know that it is Bertholdt, lingering. But he does not know if he is being waited on or taunted. He pauses, then turns his head slightly, to glance over his shoulder, to ascertain some kind of meaning from this gesture. Bertholdt’s feet scuffle against the floor as he moves on, and he is gone when Reiner turns around.

“Are you coming?” Armin asks from across the room. He has one arm around Eren’s waist, dragging him and his hobbled ankle out the door. “They’re keeping a head count and if we don’t all show up-”

“I’m coming,” Reiner says, dropping a book back onto his nightstand with a thud. He crosses the room in two long strides. “Here, let me get the door.”

Dinner is just as still and quiet as the afternoon has been. The students take their plates heaping with greens and potatoes, and they meander listlessly to their seats, as if moving through a collective dream. They eat, but slowly and reluctantly. There is not much appetite in the midst of loss, especially now that the grisly truth has spread across the school: he was found in the lake, torn apart in an alligator’s den. Even those who did not know Marco are sickened by the thought.

Reiner quietly takes his usual seat at the end of the table, and he waits to see if the seat across from him will be filled. Sasha and Connie sit down together, murmuring, soon followed by a sullen Jean. They fill in the empty spaces that seem to keep growing at their table: first Marco, then Annie. But the spot across from Reiner remains unused. He stabs at the greens with his fork, his stomach turning. He glances down the table; Eren, Mikasa, and Armin sit in their usual places, followed by Thomas and the others. At the farthest end of the table, he spies Bertholdt: squished between Ymir and Historia. Reiner purses his lips and turns back to his food. At least he has somewhere to sit.

The students are secluded after dinner, shuffled back to their dormitories with strict orders to remain in bounds unless explicitly directed otherwise. The senior prefects do a head count when they leave the dining hall, and another count when the boys are filed into their room. They seem nervous, unsettled, and Reiner cannot meet their eyes. The boys drop onto their beds, bored, confined to another night of quiet and solitude. When the door closes, Connie breaks the silence.

“I heard that the school is closing for good,” he says. He’s hanging off his bed, fingers scraping at the floor, and he glances up for validation of his rumor.

“You did not hear that,” Jean mutters. He lies back on his bed and throws a hand over his eyes.

“I did, too.”

“You said, for good?” Armin asks, glancing up from his book. It’s flipped halfway open, but he’s not reading it; a few pages flutter back and he lets them.

Connie nods. “Mm-hmm. Like, forever.”

“They can’t close,” Franz exclaims from the other side of the room. “We haven’t taken our final exams yet.”

“We won’t get to take them at all if the school is closing forever,” Jean says. He sits up and squints at Connie. “Where did you hear that?”

“From one of the seniors. The dean had to tell them on account of them not getting their diplomas if the school closes.”

“That can’t be true,” Jean sighs, flopping back down onto his bed.

“Marlowe told me himself!”

“Marlowe’s an asshole.”

“I find that hard to believe,” Armin interjects, cutting off the argument.

“You don’t believe that Marlowe’s an asshole?”

“Oh, no, he’s definitely a prick,” Armin exclaims. “I mean, about the school closing. Parents would riot, and you know the dean does everything she can to keep herself in our parents’ favor.”

“I thought they were going to finish out the semester,” Eren mutters from his bed. He’s lying back, nearly horizontal, and he has one leg pulled up against his chest, where he presses at his tender ankle. “I thought they might just give us all As.”

“As if,” Jean snorts.

“Well, we deserve it, don’t we? For what we’ve been through?”

Reiner kicks his shoes off as he lies back on his bed, and they land on the floor with two soft thuds. It doesn’t distract anyone from the conversation, though, so he throws himself back onto his bed with a soft sigh and rolls his head to glance to the side. Bertholdt is curled up on his side, one hand clenched in his hair. He faces away from Reiner, his navy sweater wrapped tightly around his body despite the heat. Reiner’s stomach drops every time he sees Bertholdt now, but he can’t help looking: checking just to make sure he’s not looking back.

“But what about Annie?” someone says. “Whatever happened to her?”

“Do you think they’ll find her?” Connie asks, pulling himself up from the edge of his bed.

“Mikasa said she cleared out her belongings before she left,” Armin says softly. “It’s like she was there one day and the next, she was gone. There’s no trace of her.”

“She must’ve ran away,” Franz says. “I just can’t figure out why.”

“No one really knew her that well,” Jean mutters. “There’s no reason why we should understand anything she did.”

“Maybe she was working for the Reds,” Connie exclaims suddenly. He flops down onto his bed and perches his chin into the palms of his hands. “McCarthy’s cracking down and she had to get out of here…”

“Hey, Connie?” Jean calls.

“Yeah?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“If she ran away, she couldn’t have gotten far,” Armin muses, “not unless she was working with someone else. Eren, did she say anything to you?”

Eren glances up suddenly, his gaze distant. “Huh?”

Armin shakes his head. “Never mind.”

The conversation repeats in the same circles for the next several hours, the same way it has been repeating for the last several days. There is no news, no development, nothing more than what they already know. Even the information they have is unsure, as it comes from rumors and eavesdroppers. No matter what conclusion they come to in their first discussion, there will always be unanswered questions, gaping holes in the story, and those mysteries lead perfectly into the second discussion, then onto the third. The evening drags to an end. Reiner tries to engage himself in games of chess and cards that the boys use to ease their boredom, but he finds himself distracted, uneasy, and eventually he resigns himself to staring at the ceiling, worrying. He feels empty: hungry, because he hardly ate today, but mostly just blank, as if the life has been sucked out of him and he is left with only the shell of his body. He drifts off sometime just before the regular curfew, a hand clasped over his eyes to keep out the lights.

He wakes up in another world.

He wakes in the water. Everything is black. He cannot see. He cannot tell which way is up and which way is down. He floats on the surface, the water slowly cascading over his body as he bobs up and down. The water surrounds him. He lies still, gently swaying with the small waves of the water, and for a moment, he feels whole again.

Suddenly, something pulls on him from below. It reaches for him, sucking him downward as the water around him quickly begins to spiral. The black water funnels around his body, whirling him around in a cyclone of darkness. He gasps for air and throws his hand up to reach for something to grab onto. But there is nothing. He tries again, reaching with all his might. His hands clutch only at the air. The cyclone grows stronger. A wave of water slaps him over the face, and he reels backwards, coughing, gasping. Another wave hits him before he can recover. The water gushes into his mouth and fills his lungs. He chokes for air. He cannot breathe, he cannot see, and still he is pulled downwards, violently, urgently, with the whole force of the world sucking him deeper into the depths of the water. With another clashing wave, he is sucked under.

He bolts up in bed, gasping for air. He breathes hard for several moments, his vision blurred, before he feels the air reach his lungs and he sees the dark room appear before him. The lights have been turned out, and the boys are sleeping, huddled in their beds. Reiner glances down. His tie lies on the floor beneath his bed; he must have pulled it off in his dream. He wipes the sweat from his brow and changes quietly into his pajamas. He glances across the aisle as he climbs back into bed. Bertholdt is fast asleep, one arm hanging off the side of the bed, the other thrown carelessly back over his head. His legs are splayed in different directions, and his blanket is halfway onto the floor. Reiner wants to smile, but the pain of longing is overwhelming. He climbs into bed instead, still breathing hard, and turns away.

Reiner sleeps fitfully after that. It’s the kind of sleep that exists halfway between slumber and wakefulness, like he is never fully in one place or another. He wakes for moments throughout the still night, always to slip back into a restless state of dreaming. He wakes again at dawn and blinks into the dark room. The first tendrils of daylight are shining behind the curtain on the opposite wall, and Reiner closes his eyes, wishing for just another half hour of sleep. But it does not come. He blinks, sitting up in bed. It seems he’s awake for good.

Reiner glances around. Everyone else is still asleep. But his gaze stops on the empty bed next to his: Bertholdt’s bed. His pajamas have been rumpled up and tossed down next to the unmade covers. His Bible is missing from the nightstand. Reiner hesitates. The school is still on lockdown, and the police are still guarding the halls. But he knows exactly where Bertholdt is, and something tells him that he should go to him.

He dresses in the dark and leaves his bed unmade. As he’s finishing the knots in his laces, someone’s light flicks on across the room. Reiner looks around.

“Armin,” he whispers across the room as Armin pulls himself out of bed, his hair a ruffled mess. “What are you doing?”

Armin looks up at him, mid-yawn. “We have track practice,” Armin whispers. He furrows his brow. “What are you doing?”

There’s no good excuse for him to be up. “I couldn’t sleep,” he says, then changes the subject. “You’re still having track practice? I thought the dean suspended all student activities.”

Armin clambers out of bed, running his hands through his hair. “Coach convinced her to give us one last practice,” he whispers. “Since the school is probably going to close anyways.”

He shuffles across the aisle and shakes a sleeping Eren. “Eren, get up. We’ve got practice.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Eren grumbles into his pillow.

Across the room, someone sighs. “Will you all shut up? Some of us are trying to sleep.”

“Sorry, Connie,” Armin says, but he doesn’t shut up. He glances at the empty bed next to Reiner’s. “Where’s Bertholdt?”

“I don’t know,” Reiner lies. “I’m going to find him.”

Armin yawns. “Don’t let the police see you,” he mutters before turning away.

He treads the dark corridors carefully, walking lightly, silently. He knows where he is going, having followed the path so many times before, but the way feels different in the darkness. He trails his fingers along the walls as he walks, reassured that he is going in the right direction. Voices sound up ahead, and he freezes. But they pass, quietly, and they disappear down another corridor. Reiner swallows his relief and takes the last turn into a narrow service passage. He climbs the tightly wound stairs that lie at his feet, and when he surfaces to the top, he only has to glance down the long hallway to know that he is in the right place. The corridor is slatted with thin windows, and at the very end lies a thick wooden door. It’s an unknown bit of the school, tucked away with a hidden entrance, but the echo of his footsteps as he walks towards the door is familiar: so familiar that he could almost forget the last events that transpired in the room beyond that door, that he could almost imagine things are the way they used to be.

The door swings open with barely a creak, and the room lies before Reiner exactly as he remembers: the dusty webs hanging from the ceiling, the old trunks and abandoned furniture shoved into the dark corners, the tall stained glass window across the room. It all looks the same, even the low-hanging yellow light overhead. He hesitates in the doorway a moment more before his gaze finally flickers down to find Bertholdt’s hunched figure sitting beneath the windowsill. He looks pensive and quiet, his tired gaze glancing up at Reiner before returning to stare at the ground. Above him, the panes of the window are splayed open unevenly, and a faint morning glow appears on the horizon.

“What are you doing here?” Bertholdt mutters without looking up.

Reiner steps inside, letting the door fall shut quietly. “I came to find you,” he says. “We need to talk.”

“I thought I told you that I was done with this,” Bertholdt says.

A pit sinks in Reiner’s stomach, and he says quietly, “I’m sorry, Bert.”

Bertholdt looks at him for a long, silent moment, his gaze searching and unreadable. His Bible lies in his hands, its leader binding wearing thin from use. Then, without a word, he puts the book aside and shifts to make room for Reiner under the window. Reiner’s heart gives way. He crosses the room slowly, his footsteps drumming in his ears. It would be so easy to believe now that everything is normal, that none of this is about them, that they have been taken back to the moment just before everything went wrong. He kneels tenderly, then drops back against the wall beneath the windowsill and glances sideways at Bertholdt.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, “for everything.”

Bertholdt’s expression softens. “I know.”

Reiner looks away and shakes his head, a wave of guilt welling up from his heart.“No, you don’t. You don’t even know the half of it.”

He feels Bertholdt watching him, his gaze soft but puzzled. “What do you mean?” he asks quietly.

Reiner’s voice catches in his throat, and he has to take a few measured breaths before he speaks again. “I don’t know what’s happened to me,” he says. His voice cracks. “I don’t know where I’ve been.”

Bertholdt’s demeanor changes instantly. He sits forward on his knees, a deep look of concern crossing his face as he reaches out for Reiner. His hand settles on Reiner’s arm; his fingers are cold. Reiner wants so much to take those fingers and press them between his hands until they are warm, but he stays where he is, his arms wrapped around his knees, an indescribable sadness rising in his chest.

“I feel like I’ve been lost,” Reiner says, staring at the ground. “I remember everything that’s happened, everything we’ve been through in the last week, but it feels like it was all a dream, like I’ve woken up now and that was all happening to somebody else.”

Reiner sighs, suddenly exhausted. He holds Bertholdt’s hand in his, painfully aware that it was a simple touch like this that landed them in this mess in the first place. He glances up again and looks into those deep brown eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Bertholdt. He squeezes his hand. “I should have listened to you all along.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Bertholdt says softly.

Reiner shakes his head. “No, I do. I was so sure that everything was going to be okay that I didn’t listen to you, even though you were right all along. _God_ , I just made everything worse.”

Bertholdt hesitates before speaking. “You were a bit of an jerk,” he mutters.

Reiner feels something in his chest flutter, and he smiles for what feels like the first time in days. “I was,” he says, “wasn’t I?”

“Maybe a bit,” Bertholdt says, mirroring his smile. “But that’s all said and done.”

Reiner’s smile falls. “It’s not done,” he says. “It’s not over until they close the investigation, and with the way things are going…”

Bertholdt furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

Reiner swallows. “They know I’m involved,” he says. “The detectives took me in for another interview, but Christ, it was more like an interrogation. They had it all figured out, and they were so sure of themselves.”

“They’re just playing you,” Bertholdt says, squeezing his hand. “That’s their job. That’s how you wring a confession out of someone.”

“But they knew,” Reiner says, glancing sharply at him. “Detective Levi knew exactly what happened. The only piece of the puzzle they’re missing is how he ended up at the lake. That’s the only thing they don’t have.”

“But they can’t get it,” Bertholdt says, “can they?”

“I don’t know, Bert,” Reiner exclaims. “They’ve gotten everything else. The whole reason they called me in there was to talk about Annie. Someone told them that they’d seen her with us recently, and they’re using that, somehow, they’re trying to pin me with it.”

He stops and catches his breath. “I guess, the bright side is that they told us what they know,” he says. “And it’s nothing more than a theory. They can’t convict me based on hearsay, especially since I asked for a lawyer-”

“You _what_?”

“I’m not going to talk myself into a trap,” Reiner exclaims, throwing his hands out. “If they had real evidence, they would have arrested me.”

“How can you know that?” Bertholdt exclaims, sitting upright. “How can you be so sure?”

“Rumors don’t hold up in court,” Reiner says. “They need more than that. They need physical evidence or witnesses-”

“And what if they get that?” Bertholdt says. “What if they find Annie?”

Reiner catches his breath. “They won’t.”

“You can’t rely on that, Reiner.”

“I don’t have anything else to rely on!”

Bertholdt jumps to his feet, swearing under his breath. He pushes a hand back through his hair before he turns around to face Reiner, who has slowly risen to meet him.

“Relying on anything other than ourselves is the reason things have turned out like this,” Bertholdt says. He gesticulates dramatically with his hands as he speaks, frantic. “It’s not that simple, and it never has been, and that’s the first mistake we made: assuming that everything would work out the way we wanted. We thought we could trust our friends, but even that isn’t something we should have relied on.”

“What are you talking about?” Reiner asks, furrowing his brow.

“Who do you think told them about us and Annie?” Bertholdt asks. “It must’ve been a student and it was probably someone in our year: someone who would have known that was unusual.”

“What?” Reiner exclaims. “So, what?”

“So _what_?” Bertholdt echoes, his voice incredulous. “One of our friends thought they had to run along and tell that to the police, even though it doesn’t exactly look good on us, which means that someone we know doesn’t trust us enough to believe that we couldn’t be involved in this!”

“Who would do that?” Reiner exclaims, then backpedals. “No one would do that!”

“Maybe it wasn’t malicious,” Bertholdt says. “But maybe it was. We’ve been overheard once. And for that matter, how do we know that Annie didn’t tell someone what she knew before she left?”

“Because we made a deal with her,” Reiner says. “We kept our end of the deal, so there’s no reason why she wouldn’t have done the same.”

“Really?” Bertholdt exclaims. “Because I can think of a lot of reasons why she wouldn’t have done the same. I mean, if I was her, I probably would have sold us out.”

“What?” Reiner sputters. “Why?”

“It was a shitty deal,” Bertholdt yells, slapping his hands together. “We let ourselves get fucked without realizing it. We put all our faith in the fact that Annie- _heiress to an illegal prohibition empire_ \- Leonhardt D’Arcy wouldn’t rat us out and skip town. There was no accountability on her end. She didn’t turn us in to the police outright, which she could have, but there’s no way for us to be sure that she didn’t tell someone what she knew before she left. There could be someone walking around out there with that information sitting pretty in their head, and if that’s the case, then it’s only a matter of time before they put all the pieces together!”

“She wouldn’t have done that,” Reiner says instantly, shaking his head. “She said she didn’t have a dog in this fight. She didn’t care what happened here.”

“We misunderstood her,” Bertholdt says, stepping in closer. “She didn’t care what happened to _us_. Her apathy goes both ways, Reiner. She doesn’t care if we do or don’t get arrested. She would have turned us in if it the payout was better.

He pauses, sucking in a deep breath, then continues.

“But you know she’s not a bad person,” he says. “She showed us that herself, just by the fact that she was running away. If she could help solve this case, then I think she would, no matter how neutral she claims to be.”

“So, what?” Reiner asks. “We shouldn’t have made the deal? We didn’t have a choice, Bert.”

“I know that,” Bertholdt says, his voice firm. “I’m saying we could have made a better deal. We could have asked for something more in exchange, something that would have ensured her silence. We made so many mistakes, Reiner, that could have been prevented if we had just used our heads a little more.”

“I don’t know why it matters,” Reiner exclaims, turning away. “It seems like the police are determined to come after me, no matter what I do.”

“It matters because if you’re a suspect, then so am I!” Bertholdt exclaims. He follows Reiner, grabbing his arm to spin him back around. “You said that Levi guessed it, but you didn’t explain. I mean- how close did he get to the truth?”

Reiner jerks his arm out of Bertholdt’s grasp, but when he meets his eyes, dark and pleading, he loses his will to fight. Silence falls between them, and the only thing Reiner can hear is his heart pounding. “He got close,” he says weakly. “Too close.”

Bertholdt presses his lips together, the fire in his eyes softening, and he drags himself back to the window where he collapses beneath it again. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up.”

He glances up at Reiner. “Are you really getting a lawyer?”

Reiner shakes his head in uncertainty; he stands for a moment more, restless, before he joins Bertholdt under the windowsill. “I don’t know,” he says softly. “If they’re really going forward with this, then I guess I don’t have a choice.”

He looks down at his hands, at the raw roots of his jagged, bitten fingernails. “But that means I’d have to call my parents, and I- _God_ , that makes it real, you know? I know that this is all really happening, but it’s just been like one bad dream after another, and now… if I involve my parents or an attorney, then it never ends. Then it becomes my whole life and I just don’t know if I can handle that.”

“So, what now?” Bertholdt asks. “What do we do now?”

“I don’t think there’s anything we can do,” Reiner mutters, “except wait and pray that the police don’t find anything else.”

“We could run,” Bertholdt says.

Reiner looks up at him. “What?”

“Like Annie did,” Bertholdt says. He leans in against Reiner, pressing their shoulders together. “We could get the hell out of this place. We’d never have to look back.”

“Where would we go, Bert?” Reiner whispers. “How would we even get out of here? They’ve got cops all over the school.”

Bertholdt sighs, looking away. “You’re right,” he says. “It was a stupid idea. We’d never get far.”

“It may still blow over,” Reiner says: words of reassurance that neither of them believes. He wants to reach for Bertholdt’s hand; he does, but he hesitates for a moment before, knowing his skin will be cold to the touch, tender like porcelain. Bertholdt blinks when Reiner takes his hand, but he says nothing: just watches as Reiner leans over and kisses his knuckles. His fingers are cold, like he’s been outside in the rain for too long. Reiner rolls Bertholdt’s hand between his palms and blows a hot breath onto his skin.

“I’m not cold,” Bertholdt mutters.

Reiner squeezes his hand. “You feel cold.”

“I’m just tired,” Bertholdt says.

Those things don’t seem correlated to Reiner, but he leaves it at that. He leans back against the wall and weaves his fingers through Bertholdt’s, looping their arms together. They sit in dejected silence. There are so many things unsaid, unsolved, but there seems to be no way forward. They have been abandoned: dropped into the water without anything to hold onto, and now there is nothing for them to do but let the other players make their moves. The silence is comforting for a moment; they can hear the world around them and know that they are alone. But it grows in the absence of noise, and thoughts continue to blossom in reluctant paranoia. Reiner can feel a question sitting on Bertholdt’s tongue, and when he looks to him, Bertholdt looks back with a profound sadness in his eyes.

“How did we get here?” he whispers. “How did this happen?”

“It was a mistake,” Reiner says.

Bertholdt gives him a withering look. “A mistake is leaving the window open and letting in a draft. It’s not leaving the window open and-”

“You know what I mean. It was an accident.”

“It could have been an accident,” Bertholdt says quietly, “if only we had…”

He cuts himself off when a soft knock echoes against the door.

Panic alights. Reiner and Bertholdt tear themselves away from each other, falling backwards into the cobwebs before stumbling awkwardly to their feet. They pin themselves against the back wall, on either side of the window, their hearts racing. They say nothing, but they glance between each other, dread filling their eyes.

“Reiner?” someone calls, their voice muffled by the door. “Bertholdt? Are you in there?”

“Yeah,” Reiner answers back, hesitantly. He glances across at Bertholdt, who motions with his hands in some kind of invented sign language and mouths words that Reiner can’t interpret. Reiner throws up his hands, perplexed, then steps apprehensively towards the door, calling, “Who is it?”

The door opens cautiously, and Reiner feels his heart pound. But when a face peers out from behind the door, he lets out a deep breath of relief. It lasts for only a moment before he is overtaken by confusion.

Eren stands in the doorway, a curiously blank look written across his face. He takes their silence as an invitation to enter further, and he swings the door all the way open to step inside. He’s wearing his track uniform, Trost’s blue and gold slashed across the tops of his socks, but he still hobbles on his injured ankle, one sneaker dragging slightly behind the other.

“I thought I might find you up here,” Eren says, stepping into the room. The door falls shut behind him with a dull thud. “Armin said you both left early this morning.”

“Eren,” Reiner says, furrowing his brow. “Why aren’t you at practice?”

“My ankle’s too tender,” he answers. He lifts one leg at the knee, as if to demonstrate. “I tried to run, but I just ended up hurting myself again.”

“That’s a shame,” Reiner says. The words feel strange coming from his mouth, and this overly casual conversation is perturbing, to say the least. He feels Bertholdt glance at him, but he cannot explain this either. “Considering it’s probably your last practice.”

“Yeah,” Eren says. “It probably is.”

An awkward silence settles. Eren glances between them, away from, around the room. Reiner looks at Bertholdt, who looks back to him with the same perplexed expression.

“What are you doing here, Eren?” Reiner finally asks.

Eren’s expression falters then: just barely, but enough. He says nothing for a moment, taking a few thoughtful and hobbled steps forward before speaking. “I found something,” he says. “I wanted to ask you about it.”

It’s then that Reiner notices the way his fist is curled, as if he holds something inside.

“What is it?” he asks, his heart pounding in his chest.

Silence overwhelms the room as Eren slowly holds out his hand and uncurls his fist before them. He stands there like a warning: Eren, sweet Eren, with Marco’s prefect badge in the palm of his hand.

“That’s-” Bertholdt exclaims, gasping under his breath. But he cuts himself off, falling silent, his jaw hanging open as his gaze shifts back and forth from Eren to Reiner.

Reiner sucks in a deep breath. “What is that?” he asks, his voice wavering despite his best efforts. He doesn’t know why he’s pretending anymore; if Eren is here, if Eren brought _that_ to them, then he must know something, he must know-

“It’s a prefect badge,” Eren says nonchalantly. He glances up at them, as if waiting for a response, but when they say nothing, just stare, he looks back down to his hand. He pulls his palm close to his chest and pokes at the small pin. “I think it was Marco’s.”

“Where’d you find it?” Bertholdt asks, his voice low.

Eren glances up. “It was caught in a drain,” he says, “in one of the sinks. The pin got stuck on the way down, I guess, and I managed to pull it out.”

Reiner feels his throat clench: his voice trapped, his shoulder tightening, his heart racing. He got rid of it. _He got rid of it_. It fell down the drain; he saw it. He heard it clink its way down the drain. There’s no way that can be it, there’s no way Eren can have it in his hands right now-

“What are you doing here, Eren?” Reiner asks again.

Eren holds the pin out in his hand as if judging its weight. He opens his mouth to speak, but he says nothing for a moment, instead cupping two fingers around the edges of the pin and holding it up to the light. When he looks back to them, his fist instinctively curling back around the badge, his gaze is expressionless.

“I thought you might know something about this,” he says. “If this is Marco’s pin, then there has to be an explanation for how it got there. I thought I might ask you two.”

“Why would we know anything about that?” Bertholdt says immediately, too quickly.

Eren’s gaze shifts to him. “I’m just wondering,” he says.

“Well, it’s probably been there for a while,” Bertholdt exclaims, stamering. “That’s why- that’s why they didn’t find it with his body, don’t you think? He probably lost it a while ago.”

He glances across to Reiner. “Right, Reiner? Marco probably lost his prefect badge.”

“Right,” Reiner echoes. “He probably lost it.”

“Yeah, maybe he lost it,” Eren says, glancing down at the pin in his hand. “It’s probably been stuck in the drain for a while.”

Silence resounds as Eren examines the pin from a distance, holding it away from his face as he stares at it. Reiner watches him: this peer, this friend, who has suddenly come to confront them about something so small as a pin. He takes in a deep breath, and something changes within him. He opens his mouth to speak. He’s stopped only by a soft touch on his elbow, and he glances over his shoulder to find Bertholdt lingering there, his lips pursed tightly, his eyes panicked. Reiner glances away.

“Marco would never lose his pin,” he says suddenly.

Eren looks up.

“Actually,” Reiner starts, “I know he didn’t lose his pin. It came off his sweater when he fell out the window. I picked it up, because I meant to bury it with him, but- we went to the lake instead, and I forgot.”

“Reiner,” Bertholdt exclaims under his breath. “What are you doing?!”

“It’s fine,” Reiner says, stepping away from him, “isn’t it, Eren? You understand, don’t you?”

Something changes in Eren’s eyes, but his expression hardly shifts, still blank and cold. He watches in silence as Reiner steps towards him, his face cracking into a half-smile.

“You understand that it was just an accident,” Reiner says, “but we couldn’t just leave him there. We couldn’t let the police find him because they would blame us.”

“He’s kidding,” Bertholdt exclaims lunging forward to grab Reiner’s arm. He pulls Reiner in close, staring at him intensely, and hisses in his ear, “You’re kidding, right?”

“I’m not kidding,” Reiner says, jerking away from Bertholdt. “I’m telling him the truth.”

“Is it true?” Eren asks. “What you just said- is it true?”

Reiner glances back to him, and although he can feel Bertholdt lingering behind him, silently begging him to shut up, he looks at Eren and nods.

Eren sighs and drops his hand. “Annie said you two might know something.”

Reiner blinks, surprised, but before he can say anything, Bertholdt is stepping forward, his fists clenched.

“She told you?” he exclaims.

Eren looks at him. “She said that I should ask you what you know about Marco’s death. She said that you two know something that you haven’t told the police.”

Bertholdt stammers for a second before whirling around to face Reiner. “I _told_ you,” he hisses. “I told you we couldn’t trust her-”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Eren says. “You’ve just told me it all yourself.”

Reiner doesn’t trust the way his eyes lie dark, his expression emotionless.

“Why did you come here, Eren?” Reiner asks, taking a step forward. “Why would you bother coming to find us? Why didn’t you just go to the police?”

Eren falters. Reiner can see it in his eyes now: the uncertainty, the hopefulness. Reiner has confessed to him once, and then twice, and he still does not believe it, at least not entirely. He knows then that Eren’s answer is _I trusted you_ , but those words never cross his lips. Instead, he just purses his lips and says steadfastly, “I had to know for myself.”

Reiner stares at him as Bertholdt tries to catch his breath in the background. For a moment, he thinks about just sitting down on the floor and putting his head between his knees and forgetting that any of this ever happened. He wants for everything to end. But Eren stands there, defiant, a blazing reminder that this moment is real: there is a witness.

“So, what now?” Reiner asks, throwing his hands out. “What are you doing to do now? What was your plan?”

Eren’s gaze hardens. “I’m going to the police.”

“To tell them what?” Reiner exclaims. “Do you think they’re going to believe you? You’re as much of a delinquent as the rest of us. They’re not going to believe a word you say.”

Eren holds up his fist. “I have evidence.”

“They won’t believe you,” Reiner repeats. “They’ll think you’ve had the badge this whole time. You’re just implicating yourself.”

“Why would I take it to the police if I was guilty?” Eren exclaims stepping forward. “They already know it was you, anyways. They just haven’t been able to prove it yet.”

“You’re not taking it anywhere,” Reiner exclaims.

He swings a hand out, lunging for Eren’s fist. Eren stumbles backwards, his eyes growing wide; but his gaze hardens as soon as he finds his balance again, and he swats Reiner away with a vicious slap to his hand. They wrestle for the badge, hands grasping. Reiner reaches for the pin, clenching his jaw, but he’s defended by Eren’s palm against his chin, pushing him backwards. He hisses and jerks Eren’s arm away. Eren ducks, the badge still tucked in one hand, and he holds it close as Reiner tries to tear it away from him.

“Just give it to me, Eren!” Reiner growls, digging his fingernails into Eren’s palms as he tries to pry his fingers apart.

Eren tries to fight his way out of Reiner’s grip around his shoulders. “Get off of me,” he yells, tucking his hands closer to his chest. “I’m not letting you have it!”

“Give it to me!”

Eren drops to his knees suddenly, taking Reiner with him. They hit the ground with a bang. Reiner tumbles away, landing at Bertholdt’s feet. Eren stumbles to his feet, the badge still held tightly in one hand, and sucks in a deep breath as he looks for an escape. But he is disadvantaged now, trapped against the back wall. Reiner and Bertholdt stand between him and the door.

“Just give it to us, Eren,” Bertholdt says, pleading. He gasps when Reiner tugs on one of his arms for support as he heaves himself upright. “Please, we won’t say anything.”

“I don’t think I’m the one who should be worried about that,” Eren exclaims, his brow furrowing in anger. “You killed Marco.”

“We didn’t kill him,” Reiner coughs. He knocks a fist against his chest to clear his throat. “I told you, it was an accident-”

“You dumped his body in the lake,” Eren shouts. “How is that any different?!”

“They would have arrested us,” Bertholdt exclaims, stepping forward. Eren steadies himself against the window ledge, his face contorted into rage. “They wouldn’t have believed that it was an accident-”

“I don’t know if I believe that!” Eren shouts. “I don’t know what to believe about you two anymore! I thought you were my friends.”

“Just _give us the badge_ ,” Reiner says, each word forceful and decisive. “I’m not asking you again.”

“And I’m not giving it to you,” Eren exclaims.

Reiner lunges for the badge, snatching at Eren’s hands. Eren pulls backward, hissing; he stumbles towards the window and catches himself against the ledge, his teeth clenching as he fights off Reiner’s attempts to take the pin. Reiner does not relent. They wrestle arms and hands, both fighting for the badge. They knock shoulders, cursing, and soon Bertholdt is reaching for them, yelling for a ceasefire.

“Stop it!” Bertholdt cries, trying to force himself in between them. “You’re going to kill each other!”

“That’s the idea,” Eren growls, shoving an elbow against Bertholdt’s chest.

Bertholdt stumbles back, coughing. Reiner feels a flame ignite in his chest, and he reels an arm backward- then swings it forward and clocks Eren in the jaw, sending him staggering backward, clutching at his face with his free hand.

“Don’t touch him,” Reiner growls.

“Fuck you,” Eren mutters between the fingers that cover his mouth. He wipes a trail of blood from his lips and straightens up, his brow furrowed. “Fuck you and your-”

Bertholdt jerks on Eren’s arm with all his might and sends him stumbling forward, his hand freed from the trap against his chest. He tucks Eren’s wrist under his arm and pries at the fingers in his curled fist, grimacing.

“Get off!” Eren snarls, digging his heels into the ground.

“Give it to me!”

“I won’t!” Eren yells. He throws a fist at Bertholdt’s shoulder, but he can’t free himself from Bertholdt’s grip. “ _Let go of me_!”

“Fine,” Bertholdt exclaims.

He lets go of Eren, who stumbles backward with the swift force of release; then he steps in and pushes hard against Eren’s chest, sending him tumbling out the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapters 9 and 10 will be published simultaneously in a double update on July 20th :)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That night changed everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> psych lmao. 
> 
> no, really, i was going to post chapters 9 and 10 together on the 20th, because neither of them are full-length. but 12000 words is still a lot to read in one update (4000 more than the usual), so chapter 9 is here a few days early. the final chapter will be out on july 20th as originally planned.

“In the Woods Somewhere” by Hozier 

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/WKAe/)

“The night so black  
that the darkness hums”

\--

The dark of late spring fell lazily across the sky. It came one hue at a time, following the golden sunset that had shimmered over the whole valley a few hours before. As night fell, the colors of the evening blended together, from sunny shades of yellow and pink to strokes of dusky blue and violet, until finally the silver moon rose to her throne in the sky and the whole world slipped into darkness.

It was this sunset that Reiner and Bertholdt watched together.

They had slipped out after study hall. For one thing, they had been playing chess all evening to the point of boredom. For another, they had not been alone together for a while. They were lucky enough to spend every day together: living and learning in the company of best friends. But that company included a constant swirl of classmates and teachers. Finding a place to be together, a place just for them, had taken the better part of their first two years at Trost. The excuses to be left alone grew endlessly: “we have to work on our literature project,” or “we’re going to play tennis and we’d rather not have an audience,” or once the very audacious, “Bert’s sister just died and he needs to grieve, please allow some privacy.”

“I don’t have a sister,” Bertholdt had said, irritated.

Reiner had shrugged. “Well, not anymore.”

Then they had found their room. It was never really theirs, not entirely. They shared it with a family of mice that nested in the rafters and a host of abandoned theatre props. But otherwise, it belonged to them: a dusty quarter in the southeast tower that had largely been forgotten by the rest of the school.

“I’m not really sure if I would call this a tower,” Bertholdt had said the first time he had set foot in the room. He had glanced around at the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling and brushed some dust from his hair. “It’s not that high.”

“It’s the highest point in the school,” Reiner had said. He had crossed the room to the window: two arched panes of stained glass set into the wall. “Unless you count the library attic. But that room doesn’t have this fantastic view.”

He had cracked the panes apart and pushed the window open, sending a cascade of dust into their faces. But even as they coughed, they could see that he was right. It was a terrific view, the best in the whole school. Their eyes roamed over the valley as they stood there, pressed together between the open frames of the window. They could see past the school gardens, past the sports fields, and across the vast forest that stretched onto the horizon. Grey storm clouds had been rolling across the sky that day, getting threateningly near as the summer approached haphazardly. They had watched as rain fell over the forest in the distance and a single stroke of lightning lit up the whole valley.

“Okay,” Bertholdt had said. “You’re right.”

And so they stayed.

Over the next two years, the room became theirs. They hadn’t meant for everyone to know, but everyone did because, as they found out, there were secret spots all over the school that students had been claiming as their own hidden castles for generations. There was a bookshelf in the library that doubled as a door and led to a tiny, windowless sitting room. There were attics abound, above the common room, above the kitchens, above the library. There was an abandoned greenhouse in the gardens that served as a haven for students who gathered to read forbidden books. The north corridor was creeping with secret passageways and hidden rooms. It was a school tradition, Reiner and Bertholdt learned, and so there was nothing odd about their room. It belonged to them, and no one else. But it was unspoken that, should they disappear, that is where they would be. That was the way it was.

It became their spot: the place they went to collude on homework, to smoke before Bertholdt quit, to talk in low voices about which of their classmates they would like most to neck. By their third year together, that answer came easily.

That night, after the sun had gone down, a memory stirred in Reiner. He smiled and glanced at Bertholdt. They were leaning against the windowsill, watching the stars, and Bertholdt was nearly asleep, his head laid sideways in the palm of his hand.

“Do you remember,” he asked, and Bertholdt jerked awake, blinking, “the first time we kissed?”

He said it because he knew it would make Bertholdt blush. It did, and Reiner laughed.

“Of course,” Bertholdt yawned. He turned away from the window and slid down to sit on the floor. “It happened right here.”

“Right here,” Reiner repeated. He stood at the window for a moment more, his elbow pressing against the cool stone ledge as he stared out into the darkness. Few stars shone that night, but the burn of his cigarette glowed orange against the midnight sky. He turned away, the cigarette dangling between his fingers, and slid down to sit next to Bertholdt. He held the cigarette out as an offering, but Bertholdt wrinkled his nose.

“No, thanks.”

“You never really liked smoking anyways.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why’d you start?”

Bertholdt shrugged. “I don’t know. You were doing it. You look cool doing it.”

“Aw, thanks.”

“But they make me cough,” he says. “And they’re bad for you.”

“More doctors smoke Camels than any other brand…”

“And smoking is against school rules.”

“Since when have I cared about school rules?”

They fell silent, sitting with their backs against the wall. Reiner smoked, and Bertholdt dozed off again, letting his eyes fall shut slowly.

“We should get back soon,” he murmured through a yawn after a quiet moment. “It’s way past curfew. Someone’s going to notice if we never go to bed.”

Reiner watched him. “You mean, someone like Marco?” he said.

Bertholdt cracked a smile, glancing over at him. “Come on, he’s not that bad.”

“No, he’s not. But if I told him that shoving a stick up his butt was a new requirement for the dress code, he would fucking do it.”

“There’d be no need for that,” Bertholdt said seriously. “He’s already got a stick up his butt.”

“Good one.”

“I’ll be here all week.”

Reiner took a slow drag from his cigarette and watched the smoke disappear into the air as he exhaled. “But really,” he said after a moment, “what would any prefect do: write us up for being out of bed after curfew?”

“That’s exactly what they would do.”

“Then let ‘em. I’ve already got a million citations, and my parents don’t care what I do as long as I’m not in jail.”

“I care,” Bertholdt remarked. “I mean, I’m going to college. And I’m not letting your truancy keep me from that.”

“Honey,” Reiner drawled, “that’s what your rich parents are for.”

Bertholdt smiled. “We should get back.”

“Geez, lighten up…”

“We’ve got class in the morning!”

“You haven’t answered my question yet.”

Bertholdt blinked. “What? About the first time we kissed?”

“Yeah.”

“I told you, I remember it. How could I forget?”

“Do you remember what it felt like though?”

Reiner turned to face him, suddenly, his smile loose and his eyes warm. The distance between their faces seemed minute as they stared at each other in silence, their soft breathing the only sound between them. Without looking away, Reiner reached down and took Bertholdt’s hand in his. The warm skin of their fingers tingled as their touch, and Bertholdt smiled softly.

“Of course,” he whispered. “It was a lot like this, wasn’t it? Just us and the night.”

“We were so young,” Reiner breathed. “Just a couple of kids who didn’t know what they were doing.”

Bertholdt laughed. “Was it that bad?”

“We’ve certainly improved.”

“It’s only been two years,” Bertholdt said, clenching Reiner’s fingers in his grasp. “But it feels like it’s been so much longer.”

“Only one year left after we finish our exams,” Reiner said. He paused. “And then, after that-”

“Then we graduate,” Bertholdt said, cutting him off. “I know. And I don’t want to think about the future like that, not when we’re still here together.”

Reiner smiled, but he continued anyways. “You have to start thinking about it soon. It’ll be here before you know it, and then what? What will you do?”

“I told you, I’m going to college.”

“Yeah, but where?”

“Any school that will take me.” He glanced up at Reiner. “I may not have your penchant for rule-breaking, but I’ve still got something of a record. My parents did send me _here_ , after all.”

“They sent you here because you’re gifted and talented.”

“Talented at doing stupid shit.”

“Hey,” Reiner said, grinning, “it’s only stupid if you get caught.”

Bertholdt smiled lightly, but his gaze was distant. “What about you?” he asked. “You parents want you to go to college, don’t they?”

Reiner shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, lacing their fingers together. “I don’t think I’m cut out for four more years of school.”

“So, what then?”

He squeezed Bertholdt’s fingers. “Maybe I’ll join the army.”

“The army?” Bertholdt exclaimed, raising his eyebrows. “You’d want to go to war?”

“Who says we’ll be at war in a few years?”

“I’m sure that’s what everyone thought in 1945, but look at us now. The stalemate in Korea is never going to end, no matter what Eisenhower says-”

“Ugh, I hate it when you talk politics…”

A thunderstorm rippled overhead suddenly, and they both glanced up towards the window. Thunder rolled across the valley. Somewhere in the forest, lightning struck. It flashed across the night, and its yellow echo split through the room, highlighting the sleep written across their faces for a single moment before the world fell dark again.

“We should get back,” Bertholdt said after the lightning.

Reiner sighed. He took one last drag from the cigarette and blew out a cloud of thick smoke into the empty room as thunder crashed overhead. He reached up and crushed his cigarette on the window ledge.

“We should have been studying,” he muttered.

Bertholdt glanced up at him. “Huh?”

“We have a Latin quiz tomorrow.”

“…fuck.”

Reiner smiled, leaning in to kiss Bertholdt’s forehead as rain began to pour. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I’ll probably fail anyways.”

“You could at least try,” Bertholdt muttered, grinning. He reached up with one hand to grasp at Reiner’s cheek, his fingers cool against his skin. “You might surprise yourself.”

Drawing his lips down Bertholdt’s temple, Reiner smiled. “Nah, I don’t like surprises.”

“Really?” Bertholdt grabbed him by the jaw and held their faces apart. “How about this one?”

He kissed him, bringing their lips together in a slow embrace. It was tender and warm: the kind of kiss that only happens on moonlit nights. Their bodies shifted as they moved to face each other, hardly breaking their touch. Bertholdt’s lips were soft, as they always were, and warm, like the humid air that settled around their bodies as they kissed. Rain splattered across the windowsill and sprinkled onto their heads, but they did not move.

Bertholdt tensed suddenly. “Did you hear that?” he asked, whispering against Reiner’s lips.

“Hear what?” Reiner murmured. He pressed his lips to the corner of Bertholdt’s mouth, drawing him back in. Bertholdt kissed him again, a hand tracing across Reiner’s jaw.

“Never mind. It was probably the storm.”

It lasted another moment or two: just the two of them, like that, alone in the world.

Then something creaked outside. Before either of them could move, or even think, the door swung open, its knob clattering loudly as it slammed against the back wall, and someone let out a soft, “oh!”

Bertholdt jerked upright, gasping instinctively. At his sudden movement, Reiner hissed and, losing his balance, fell backwards from his knees onto his ass, all in a split second. Fingers shaking, hearts jumping, they both stumbled to their feet, not daring to look up until their stuttered excuses sputtered to a silence. Bertholdt stared determinedly at the ground, his hands clenched but quivering. Reiner, his heart pounding, glanced up, hoping to avoid looking straight into the eyes of their captor. He met the startled gaze of Marco, who stood in the doorway in all his wide-eyed glory.

Marco said nothing.

No one spoke. No one dared to move, not even to breathe. A stiff silence swallowed the room, and in the few seconds that followed, the entire world seemed to come to a halt. Above them, around them, behind them, summer thunder rolled through the valley, even as the silence in the room became deafening. Rain continued to fall, splashing against the windowsill in fat drops. Reiner could feel it sprinkling against the back of his neck as he stared straight ahead: determined not to drop his gaze, but reluctant to make any further eye contact.

Marco did not seem to know which one of them he should look at, or if he should look at them at all. His gaze flicked back and forth, from one stunned face to another, and eventually he gave up, settling instead to stare out the window that lay in the wall behind them. He sucked in a breath. His framed seemed tiny in the doorway, his shoulders shrunken as he shifted his weight nervously. He took another breath, clenched his fingers around the small notepad he had in one hand, and finally he broke the silence.

“It’s past curfew,” he said. He looked at neither of them: at Bertholdt, clutched against the back wall as if his very life depended on it, or at Reiner, standing defiantly in front of the open window in protest.

Marco’s gaze flickered between them, but he would not meet their eyes.

“I finished my rounds,” he said. “Neither of you were in the room, and I knew you’d be here, so I just thought…”

His voice grew smaller.

He swallowed. “Well, it’s past curfew.”

Against the wall, Bertholdt nodded, mute. Reiner said nothing.

Marco fidgeted with the small notebook in his hands. “Come on,” he said, cracking an uncomfortable smile. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Reiner’s gaze snapped up. “Make what harder?”

“You know what I mean,” Marco said instantly. “You’re out past curfew, and you know I have to write you up for that.”

“Oh, come on!”

“Reiner,” Bertholdt said, stepping forward, but Marco was shaking his head.

“You know the rules,” he insisted. “It’s the middle of the night, and you’re out of bounds!”

“You’re out of bounds,” Reiner muttered. “Come on, give us a break, it’s not a big deal.”

Marco’s chest swelled up, as if Reiner had diminished the very honor of his duty. He stepped further into the room, letting the door swing shut. “If you’re asking me to just ignore this-”

“Come on-”

“You know I can’t do that, Reiner,” Marco exclaimed. “We have rules for a reason, and if you break them, then you should be prepared to face the consequences-”

“Oh, _Jesus_ , you’re such a-”

“Enough!” Bertholdt suddenly exclaimed, lunging forward. He threw an arm across Reiner’s shoulders to barricade the impending confrontation, and in the hushed silence that followed, he looked to Marco.

“We’ll take the citation,” he said. “We were out past curfew, and we get it. Just write us up.”

Marco hesitated for a moment, something strange and unreadable crossing over his face. But it disappeared, and he puffed up his shoulders happily, readying his pencil to write. “I’m glad you understand,” he said, glancing down at his notebook. “There’s no need to get so worked up about this kind of violation, honestly, especially for you two-”

“But that’s it,” Bertholdt said, “right?”

Marco blinked. “What?”

“That’s it,” Bertholdt repeated. He dropped his arm and stepped forward, the dim lamplight spilling over his face in waves and shadows. “That’s all you’re writing us up for?”

Bertholdt’s words seemed to slap Marco across the face. He lowered his pencil.

Reiner tensed; the overwhelming silence squeezed his lungs until he could no longer breathe, and he watched, paralyzed, as Marco’s soft eyes fluttered back and forth in a panic. Even the storm outside seemed to still at the unspoken threat.

Marco finally broke the silence. “I don’t know what you mean,” he stammered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You know what he means,” Reiner said, and a sudden wave of adrenaline pulsed through his body, his heart pounding again, his muscles flushed with blood. “You know exactly what he’s talking about.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Marco exclaimed. “And I think this is better left up to the dean.”

Reiner’s stomach lurched. “So you’re reporting us,” he said, “for more than being out past curfew.”

“I’m not trying to make a statement,” Marco said, shaking his head. “I mean, I’m not- judging or anything, but-”

“But what?” Reiner exclaimed. His frustration was boiling up, tearing through his veins and shooting through his fingertips, and he couldn’t help but step forward towards Marco as he shouted. “You’re going to report us anyways, because we’re sinful? Abominations?”

“I didn’t say that,” Marco protested, standing his ground. “I told you, it’s not that!”

“What the hell is it, then?”

“I’m doing my job,” Marco said forcefully. “You know, _or you should know_ , that student relationships are forbidden, and-”

“Oh, for Christ’s sakes!” Reiner shouted. His hand flew up to grasp at his temples, his nostrils flaring as he sucked in a deep breath. “Marco, we fucking know that! Don’t you think we fucking think-”

“I’m just telling you-”

“But it’s not that simple,” Reiner cried. “It’s not the same, don’t you see?”

“Reiner, it doesn’t matter,” Marco exclaimed, his voice cracking. “It doesn’t matter, it’s just the rules.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ ,” Reiner exclaimed. His feet stumbled forward as he stepped towards Marco, planting himself before him and grabbed him by the shoulders, suddenly, staring him straight in the face. “What do you think is gonna happen if you tell the dean about this?”

“Get your hands off me,” Marco shouted, smacking Reiner’s hands away. He stumbled back, towards Bertholdt, who lingered, quiet and wide-eyed, by the window.

“Look, I’m sorry,” Marco said, throwing his hands out. He stopped to catch his breath, to push his hair back in place. “But you broke a rule and it’s my job to report that.”

Reiner clenched his jaw as he turned towards the window. “You don’t have to report it,” he said. “No, really, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“It’s a matter of principle,” Marco said. “If I let one person get away with breaking a rule, then everyone will get away with breaking rules. I’m sorry, but it’s my job.”

Reiner rolled his eyes. “It’s not even a real job,” he snarled. “You’re a glorified hall monitor.”

Marco stiffened up, one of his fists curling into a ball. “Would it help if I told you that-”

“Oh, shut up!” Reiner yelled, lunging towards him.

He meant to hold himself over Marco, to tower over his small figure like he had before, to scare him however he could until he’d take back his damning words and promise to never say a thing about what he had seen. He meant to tell Marco to get out, to fuck him and his job, to think about something other than his own ass for once. But Bertholdt was moving too. Right then, as Reiner was pouncing in his fury, Bertholdt was reaching out to plead with Marco, to pull him back by the shoulder, to tell him that this fight was worth it, that they would do anything to keep this out of his evening report.

They never spoke those words.

It happened so fast; and yet, it happened so slowly.

Marco fell spectacularly. He stumbled first, his feet slipping over the floorboards as the momentum of the moment propelled him backwards. His spine hit the stone windowsill, and he nearly caught himself there, his hands grasping desperately for the panes of stained glass framing his fall. But his fingers missed the mark; they slipped over the wet glass, and his body continued the descent. Reiner watched him go. He caught a glimpse of Marco’s face in the endless split-second before he tumbled backwards over the windowsill. Reiner stood, frozen, his arms outstretched but out of reach, and met the terrified gaze of a boy about to die. The moment seemed to last half a forever, just their eyes and their fear. But it was only half a second, and before Reiner could say anything, do anything, even understand what was happening, Marco fell: backwards, over the stone ledge, head first, his body following in one, long graceless dive.

A flash of lightning struck across the valley, and his body hit the stone below.

The blood lingered for only a moment. For the thinnest sliver of a split-second, it pooled like a halo across the stone patio, staining everything within its reach. And then it was gone. With a crack of lightning across the black sky, the puddle of red was swept away by a downpour of rain.

“He fell,” and Bertholdt was gasping at last, his fingers trembling as they brushed through his tousled hair. “He fell, Reiner, you saw that, right, he fell, he just-”

“He fell,” Reiner said.

He stared, distracted by the rain. It poured onto the patio, slapping against the stone. For every drop of rain that fell, another drop of blood leaked out, only to be swept away like loose sand in an oncoming tide. It captured him. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. But then he was coughing and choking, just as frantic as nail-biting Bertholdt.

“He fell,” nail-biting Bertholdt repeated.

They looked down together. They were standing, their bodies pressed together between the two open frames of the stained glass window that arched over their heads. It was a terrific view, usually. When the sun rose over the forest in the early morning, it cast a rosy glow over the valley and reflected off every golden flower in the school gardens. Reiner liked to look out over the grounds in the mornings, with a stolen cup of coffee and a secret cigarette, biding the time until the chapel bell rang for breakfast, commenting to an absent Bertholdt (he was always there in spirit, though really he was hanging off the bed in his sleep) on which manicured hedges looked the most phallic that day. Sometimes he would flick his cigarette ashes on the track team, who gathered on the patio below to stretch after their morning practice.

There was no one down there that night. Well, not anymore.

They looked down together. Marco’s head had split open on the stone patio, and as the blood spread around him, the rain drove it away, down the steps and into the grass until it disappeared. It seemed to just keep coming, even after as much had poured out as Reiner thought possible. It just kept coming. He never knew a body could hold so much blood: a warm, human body.

Somehow the view wouldn’t be as terrific anymore.

“He fell,” Reiner echoed.

“Shit,” Bertholdt said. “Oh shit.”

A single, flickering lantern on the patio below lit their view as they gazed down in shock. The sight was dim, but it was damning all the same. Bertholdt stumbled away from the window, sucking in a gasp of air. Reiner lingered at the window a moment more, frozen. His heart pounded through his chest, his shoulders, his throat. He felt like he was dreaming: like none of this, even this heart-pounding terror, was real, and that he would wake up soon, safe in his bed.

He turned away from the window. Bertholdt was flattened against the door, his hands clasping at his pale face, and as he stared at Reiner in horror, his legs gave out and he sunk down to the floor.

“Reiner,” he muttered, his voice strangled.

Reiner shook his head. “I know,” he said, running a hand across his forehead. “I know. Shit. _Shit_. Holy shit.”

“I-” Bertholdt started, then stopped, speechless. He clutched a hand over his mouth and sat for a moment in silence, slowing down to catch his breath before he glanced up at Reiner again. “What the hell have we done?”

“It was an accident,” Reiner said instantly. His hands shook. His mind whirled, and he look around the dark room as if searching for some obvious solution. He found none. “He fell. We both saw it. There was nothing we could have done.”

“So we’ll go get the dean,” Bertholdt said, clambering to his unsteady feet.

“What?” Reiner exclaimed, furrowing his brow. “No!”

“It was an accident,” Bertholdt echoed, his eyes widening. “We have to go find someone, and- we’ll explain what happened!”

Reiner shook his head, turning to pace across the wooden floorboards. “No,” he said, his words coming in short breaths. “No, we can’t do that. They won’t believe us.”

“What? Reiner, _it was an accident_.”

“Accidents don’t happen to people like us, Bert,” Reiner exclaimed, whirling around to face him. “You think it’s an accident we ended up at Trost? You think that the police would believe this was an accident?”

“The police?” Bertholdt exclaimed. “What are you talking about?”

“They knew,” Reiner said, stepping towards him. He took a short, furious breath. “When they sent us there, our parents knew it was only a matter of time before we got into serious trouble, the kind that they couldn’t fix. And they were right: we’re already a few dumb mistakes from getting kicked out of this school. With records like ours-”

He stopped at the look in Bertholdt’s eyes.

“No one would believe us,” he said, lowering his voice.

The weight of his words hung heavily on every breath, and a glare glinted in his eyes as he swallowed his resolve. It was minutes before Bertholdt could look up at him, silent tears spilling from the corners of his eyes, and speak.

“We can’t just leave him,” he said, his voice cracking.

Reiner glanced over his shoulder. The window lingered behind them like an open wound, present and waiting. Outside, the rain continued to pour.

“He’s right below the window,” he heard Bertholdt say. “They’ll know- the other students, I mean- they’ll know that this is our room. We can’t just leave him.”

“Maybe he jumped,” Reiner murmured: just a thought, but he regretted it the instant he said it.

“No one would believe that,” Bertholdt said.

“So what?” Reiner asked, turning back around to face him. “What are we supposed to do?”

Bertholdt hesitated before he spoke. He needn’t have; by the uneasy look lingering in his eyes, Reiner already knew what he was thinking. Bertholdt swallowed hard and his gaze flickered past Reiner, out the window to the falling rain.

“We can’t just leave him,” he repeated.

The truth remained unspoken between them, but they both understood. Bertholdt looked to Reiner, waiting for some kind of validation. Outside, a deep stroke of thunder hollered into the black night.

“Do you want to do this?” Reiner asked, his voice soft: a stupid question.

Bertholdt took a deep breath. “We don’t have a choice,” he murmured, pulling his arms closed around himself. “We’re in this now.”

Reiner pursed his lips. “We’re in this together.”

When they met again, the rain had ceased. Where it poured in droves, it now sprinkled in a light shower. Reiner let the tiny drops fall over his upturned face as he sidled along the building, crossing towards the patio. From around the corner came Bertholdt, his shoes slipping in the mud. They said nothing as they approached, just silently lifted the shovel and car keys in their respective hands. Together, they glanced across from where they stood and met a grisly sight on the back patio. The rain had washed away the blood, but the flickering lamplight highlighted the eerie scene.

They climbed the patio steps together. There, before them, lay what remained of Marco. If it were not for the crack across his skull and the disjointed lay of his limbs, Reiner would have thought him asleep. But under the yellow lamplight, Marco’s face seemed sunken and aged, like he had been gone much longer than just a half hour. Reiner bent to his knees, grimacing, holding his breath; something caught his eyes in the darkness, and he froze when he realized what it was. Marco’s prefect badge had fallen onto the patio, and it glistened, golden, in the lamplight. Wordlessly, Reiner stowed it in his pocket. They would take it with them.

On the count of three, they hoisted him up: Bertholdt with his hands around the ankles, Reiner with his hands around the wrists. The dead weight of his body swung low across the patio floor as they carried him, his back scraping against the stone. They shuffled awkwardly to the edge of a worn gardening tarp as the rain droplets fell onto their faces. On another count of three, they lowered him onto the tarp. Bertholdt took a step back, pale and shivering, and he looked up at Reiner, who did not stop to contemplate before bending to roll and tie the tarp. It was a rotten business: heaved over their shoulders into the back of the school van, their shoes slipping across the muddy field as they spat rainwater from their lips. With the body in the back, they clambered into the van.

Their car doors slammed in unison. Reiner paused to catch his breath, one hand hanging limply over the steering wheel. He could feel Bertholdt staring at him from the passenger seat, quivering in the silence as they sat, staring listlessly out the front window. Tiny drops of rain splattered arrhythmically against the windshield, but otherwise, the night had fallen still. Reiner turned the key in the ignition. The van purred to life, brining Bertholdt out of his wordless reverie with a start. Reiner glanced sideways at him.

“Let’s go,” he said, and the van took off into the night.

They drove into the woods. The van shuffled along in the darkness, trundling over the dirt road as it went, and the shovel in the back clinked against the car floor as they drove on. Bertholdt winced at that, but Reiner kept his hard gaze on the dimly lit road in front of them. On they went. He had no plan in mind for where they were headed; he knew only that they needed to go deep in the woods, far from the school boundaries, far into the woods where no one would ever set foot. He gripped the wheel, his knuckles turning white, and he pressed the van onwards. He felt Bertholdt watching him, but he had nothing to say. What could he possibly say in a moment like this?

The van continued on down the forest road. They were nearing the edge of the familiar forest, past the reaches of even the most adventurous wandering students, and they were headed deeper into the forest, following the trail that would meander through the thick woods for nearly an hour before it finally reached the neighboring town. Reiner sped the car on. As they drove down the road, he recognized a sign ahead that signaled the exit for another dirt path: _Lake Stohess, two miles_.

The sign caught his eyes as they sped past. He didn’t think about it in the split second that he saw it, but as soon as it was gone, an omen lingering in the rearview mirror, he realized what it meant. He knew what they were going to do. He slammed on the brakes, his hand instinctively snatching at the clutch. The tires shrieked as they pealed to a halt in the middle of the dirt road, skidding through the dust, and Bertholdt flew forward, barely catching himself on the dashboard in time to save his face from smashing into it.

“What the hell, Reiner?” he exclaimed when the car was fully stopped. He sat up straight, blinking wide, and glanced across at Reiner. “What are you doing?”

Reiner jerked the clutch into reverse and leaned back, one arm on the wheel as he turned to look out the rear window. “Lake Stohess,” he said simply.

Bertholdt blinked at him. “The swamp?”

“Yep.”

“What about it? What the hell are we doing?”

The car backed up down the dirt road, the motor grinding as the wheels rolled backwards. Finally, it came to a gentle stop, the headlights shining on the sign. Reiner gestured out the passenger window. Bertholdt turned to look, squinting in the early morning darkness.

“ _Lake Stohess, two miles_ ,” he read off the sign. He glanced over his shoulder at Reiner. “I know where the lake is, okay, but what are we doing?”

“We’re going to the lake,” Reiner said.

“The lake?” Bertholdt echoed. His voice was distant, but as the car turned down the dirt rood into the deep woods, his eyes suddenly widened. “Oh, no, Reiner, we can’t dump him in the swamp.”

“It’s a lake.”

“It’s a swamp, and everybody knows it. Will you please slow down?”

They flew down the wooded road. It bent wildly through the woods; the twists and turns of the car only sent their hearts racing faster. The van pounded through the darkness, guided only by its flickering headlights as it plunged onwards towards the swamp. Reiner gripped the steering wheel, his brow furrowed and his gaze determined. The eerie silence in the car only heightened as they drove deeper into the woods, following the narrow road. He could feel Bertholdt glancing at him anxiously.

“Reiner,” Bertholdt said finally. “We got a shovel.”

“The sun is rising.”

Case in point, a narrow patch of dim light was appearing in the distance, and as they approached the clearing of the swamp, it only seemed to grow brighter.

“It’ll be morning soon,” Reiner continued, “and everyone at school will be up. I don’t know about you, but I’ve never buried a body before and I don’t wager that we’ll be back in time for breakfast-”

“It doesn’t have to be that deep-”

“What, so the bears can dig him up?”

“Reiner, can we talk about this, for God’s sakes?”

The forest suddenly cleared away as they came to the head of the lake. A spread of bald cypress trees, dripping with Spanish moss, lined the banks of the open swamp; where the water ran deeper, it seeped between the trunks of the trees and stretched into a proper body that carried on for miles in the surrounding woods. The car slowed as they drove into the clearing, and Reiner finally brought its muddy tires to a grinding stop on the bank. Bertholdt sucked in a breath at the sight of the deep water, inky black beneath the cover of the trees. But the sky was getting lighter: strokes of purpose and rose glimmered on the horizon. Morning had come.

“We’ve gotta be quick,” Reiner said, cranking off the ignition.

Bertholdt jumped out of the car after him, stumbling. “Reiner, we need to talk about this.”

“What is there to talk about?” Reiner exclaimed. He crossed to the back of the van. “If we weigh him down-”

“Do you hear yourself?”

“I hear myself coming up with a plan,” Reiner said. They came face to face at the back of the van, peering wildly at each other in the dim morning light. “You said yourself, we don’t have a choice.”

Bertholdt swallowed and glanced away. “They wouldn’t have believed us,” he repeated under his breath: a mantra. He cleared his throat and looked back to Reiner. “I just- I can’t believe this is real.”

“It’ll be over soon,” Reiner said. He placed a hand on the back door of the van, running his fingers down the cool metal. “Come on. It’ll be full light soon.”

The early morning sky hung over them like a wet blanket draped across their shoulders: heavy and dark and unbearable. The midnight blue of the night was fading as the earliest rays of the sun began to peak over the forest on the horizon, leaving in its place a canvas of drowsy grey strokes, the kind that summons days and days of ugly weather. Frogs croaked across the swamp. A heron fluttered down from the cypress trees, a clump of Spanish moss hanging from one leg, and dropped silently into the thin shallows on the other side of the swamp. It cocked its head in their direction, and its gaze seemed to pierce through them. Reiner wished it would fly away.

He glanced sideways at Bertholdt, who seemed to hesitate. Suddenly distant, he stared off into the woods, his gaze trembling and unfocused. He paused for a moment more, seemingly at a loss for words, before he glanced back to Reiner and spoke again.

“This way,” he said, “no one will know the truth.”

“No one will know,” Reiner echoed.          

They stood there for a moment more, staring across the swamp; then the heron flapped its wings and took off into the dawn, and Reiner sighed.

“Come on,” he said, turning back to the van. “We’ve got to do this.”

The water swung heavily against their knees as they trod into the deep, but the body in their arms weighed so much more. Steadily they went; the mud at the bottom of the swamp clung to their shoes, sucking them down, and the wet stench of wild water rose around them as they went. Above them, mosquitoes swarmed. Below them, algae plastered against their knees. Into the water they carried on. Deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until the green water was splashing across their waists and they could go no further.

Bertholdt on the left, Reiner on the right: in their arms, the wrapped corpse of someone they used to know. He weighed them down, a bulk that pressed down on their arms and begged to be released into the abyss of the swamp. Covered with stones, legs and arms loose as though he were merely asleep: they carried him out into the swamp, grimacing and groaning, and finally they stopped there in the center.

One. Two. Three.

They let him go.

Muddy water splashed across their faces as the body hit the surface of the swamp and sank beneath. Bertholdt gasped, wiping algae from his eyes, and Reiner coughed, turning to stumble back to the muddy banks. They reached the van like that, soaked and coughing and trying to forget what they had just done with their shaking fingers. Reiner wished they could just stop, that they could just lie in the grass and sleep until they woke up from this nightmare. But the sun was looming dangerously close on the horizon, and they had to get back. Someone would notice if they missed breakfast.

When they clambered into the van, he glanced across at Bertholdt, who looked back at him. They said nothing. Reiner turned the key in the ignition, and they drove off.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is nowhere left to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so we made it to the end. it's been a long road. this is not the first full-length (ish) work that i've written, but it is the first that i have published and updated on a continuous and mostly consistent schedule. i'd like to thank everyone who has stuck around from the beginning, as well as the newer readers who hopped on just in time for the end. to later readers, as well: if you're reading this any time in the future, congratulations on getting this far and thank you for making it to the end.
> 
> i have already started my next writing adventure, a modern college au about ymir and historia. the tonal shift will be jarring, as it's essentially a romantic comedy, but reiner and bertholdt will be happy and together (and marco will have an actual speaking role). i hope to update that fic monthly, especially because each chapter will cover a month, beginning with august, but i anticipate being extremely busy for the rest of the year, so no promises. 
> 
> otherwise, you can always find me on tumblr (ackermom). i will be posting one or two short things for reibert week, but then i have to buckle down and start studying like i was meant to do this summer lmao. 
> 
> tl;dr thank you

“Jordan” by Roanoke

[LISTEN](http://picosong.com/v3V3/)

“Take my faith and bring me home”

\--

Reiner closes his eyes.

He waits for the sickening crunch that he is expecting: the same telltale sound that he heard at this window just last week, before everything changed. It was that sound that changed everything. He waits for it again, with bated breath. Even his heart seems to hold its beat in the long, falling silence that surrounds him. He does not think. He does not have to think to know that this time the sound will ruin them forever. He feels it in his bones, in the pit of his stomach, in the way his blood slows as it seeps through his veins, as if his body has already given up. He closes his eyes and he waits for the sound.

It never comes.

Something touches him. Reiner jumps and his eyes fly open. He glances around, blinking, startled back to reality; the grey sunrise spills across the valley and its light falls through the open window, casting long shadows across their faces, a vibrant contrast that shocks his eyes as he tries to adjust. Bertholdt clutches at his arm, his fingernails digging into Reiner’s skin, as he doubles over, sucking in a deep breath.

“Oh, my God,” Bertholdt gasps, his words erratic. “Oh, my God, Reiner. _Lord, forgive me_ -”

Reiner presses against the windowsill and glances down, his heart beating fast. He didn’t hear it- that noise that he thought was coming- and he discovers why with a deadening realization when he looks down at the patio far below. Collapsed on the stone is a mess of blood and bodies, but it is moving and groaning. Eren writhes among them, clutching at an awkwardly twisted shoulder and a busted nose. It is the entire track team, crushed in the midst of their warm-up stretches. They caught his fall. Eren stumbles upright and extends a grip to Armin, who appears to have born the brunt of the fall; he’s carrying a clearly broken arm and a nasty split wound on his forehead, but he is alive. They are all alive, and they are listening as Eren winces through his pain and begins to speak.

Reiner jerks back from the window.

“Shit,” he exclaims, his mind reeling. “ _Shit_.”

His heart pounds. He wasn’t expecting Bertholdt to push Eren like that, but at least it would have saved their asses for a few more hours. At least they would have had a chance to think about their options. But Eren is alive and he knows the truth. He knows everything. He may be hurt, but he can still talk: and talk he will when the police find out about what just happened.

“Bertholdt,” Reiner exclaims, wheeling around. He bends to face Bertholdt, who has collapsed onto the floor, his knees buckled beneath his weight, he grabs him by the shoulders. Bertholdt’s trembling hands are clasped to his face as he prays for his soul, and he refuses to remove them, even when Reiner pulls at his fingers. “Bert, he’s not dead.”

Bertholdt finally pulls back his hands and glances up at Reiner with an incredulous look in his tear-stained eyes. “What?”

“You didn’t kill him,” Reiner exclaims, staring Bertholdt straight in the eyes. “I don’t know if that’s what you meant to do, but you didn’t. Eren’s alive.”

Bertholdt looks at him, his brow furrowing in confusion. He shakes his head slowly, never breaking eye contact. “He fell three stories.”

“And he landed on the track team,” Reiner says. He crouches before Bertholdt, gripping his face between his hands; his fingers touch the tracks of Bertholdt’s tears and he wipes them away. “He’s going to tell them everything. We’ve got to get out of here.”

“What?” Bertholdt exclaims, his eyes widening. He pushes Reiner’s hands away but holds onto them, grabbing them tightly between his clammy palms. “What are you talking about?”

“He knows everything,” Reiner exclaims. “We told him everything, and he’s going to tell the police. We’ve got to go!”

“We can’t leave,” Bertholdt exclaims, his voice cracking. “If he knows, then it’s over.”

“It’s not over until we say it is,” Reiner insists, but Bertholdt shakes his head and slowly clambers to his feet, pushing Reiner’s hands away.

“It’s over, Reiner,” he mutters miserably. Red circles of tears halo his eyes and when he meets Reiner’s gaze again, he seems so profoundly defeated that Reiner’s breath catches in his throat. “They’re going to find us, no matter what we do now. We should just turn ourselves in.”

“What?” Reiner exclaims, standing up. “Are you serious?”

“What else can we do?” Bertholdt cries. He pushes a hand back through his hair and purses his lips. “We should have just admitted it from the start, but if we turn ourselves in now, maybe they’ll go easier on us.”

“We killed someone,” Reiner exclaims, stepping towards Bertholdt. “They’re not going to go _easy_ on us.”

“So what?” Bertholdt yells.. He throws his hands out, frustrated, exasperated, exhausted. “You want to sit here and let them come to us? You want to make a stand? What’s the point, Reiner?”

Reiner steps closer. “We can run.”

Bertholdt’s gaze hardens and he drops his hands. “We can’t.”

“If Annie can disappear, then so can we!”

“Annie had a head start!” Bertholdt exclaims. “She was planning her escape for who knows how long. Not to mention, you told me not ten minutes ago that running would never work. You said-”

“I know what I said,” Reiner says, stepping right up to Bertholdt. “But things have changed.”

He grabs Bertholdt hand’s and holds them close to his chest. “We have a head start now. We’ll be gone by the time the police even find out about this. We’ll take the van and we’ll get the hell out of here.”

Bertholdt stares at him, wide-eyed. He remains in silent disbelief for a moment, but his gaze grows warmer the longer he stares at Reiner. “You really believe that we can do this?”

Reiner nods. “We don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“Then we need to make it,” Reiner says. “If we’re doing this, we need to leave now.”

Bertholdt stares at him for a moment longer, tears in his eyes. Then he swallows his sobs and he whispers, “Okay.”

Reiner squeezes his hands. They run.

The door clatters violently against the wall behind them, and they leave the dark, empty room in their wake as they flee the scene of the crime. They run for their lives. They dart through patches of sunrise that spill in through the tall, stained-glass windows, and they leap down the stairs, their shoulders knocking against the walls of the narrow corridor. They burst out of the stairwell and skid around a corner. Their shoes slap against the stone floor as they sprint, and the sound echoes through the long hallways. They run past the boys’ dormitories to the rear staircase, where Reiner takes the steps three at a time, Bertholdt following closely behind. They come to a screeching halt in the anterior corridor, peering their heads around to get a view of the front door. Two police officers stand guard, but they idle halfway out the open door, tapping the ashes off their cigarettes as they watch the sunrise spill over the green valley. Reiner gestures to Bertholdt and they slip quietly into the main office, closing the door behind them.

Reiner retraces his steps through the quiet office. He dashes through the narrow hallway behind the front desk, Bertholdt hot at his heels, and heads straight for the dean’s office. He tries the doorknob. It doesn’t budge.

“Fuck!” he hisses, wrangling with the doorknob. “She locked it!”

“What?” Bertholdt breathes. “She never locks her office.”

“She did this time, probably because there’s a damn killer on the loose,” Reiner says. He slams a fist against the doorframe. “We need the keys!”

“Can’t you pick a lock?” Bertholdt hisses, reaching over him to try the doorknob.

“If I could pick a lock, would I be fucking standing here?” Reiner exclaims. He takes a take deep breath. “Alright, stand back.”

“What the hell are you doing?”

He doesn’t get an answer: only the piercing sound of shattering glass as Reiner throws his fist through the small window embedded in the door. The glass fractures around his hand and crumbles to shards, leaving a jagged hole in the door. Reiner recoils his fist and clutches it to his chest as streaks of blood drip between his fingers.

“What the hell, Reiner?” Bertholdt cries.

Reiner just shakes his head and pushes Bertholdt forward. “Get the keys,” he says. “They’re hanging right there! Just grab them!”

Bertholdt reaches gingerly through the hole in the window and snatches up the keys that are hanging on a wooden peg rack near the door. He grabs Reiner’s other hand and pulls him back down the hallway. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”

They step cautiously into the front hallway. The police officers are still standing on the front porch, talking in low voices. Bertholdt leads Reiner quietly beneath the stairs and into the back corridor, and then they make a break for it, dashing through the hallways until they burst through the side door- a maintenance entrance- where the school van is parked nearby, beneath an oak tree. Reiner snatches the keys from Bertholdt and starts for the driver’s side.

“Can you drive like that?” Bertholdt asks, wincing at the blood that seeps down Reiner’s arm. It leaches between the fibers of Reiner’s shirtsleeve, but Reiner just pushes it up past his elbow and carries on.

“I’m fine.”

“Here, take this.” Bertholdt tugs his tie loose and gingerly wraps it over Reiner’s bloodied knuckles, tucking it tightly between his fingers.

“Thanks,” Reiner murmurs, curling his fist around the tie. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here.”

The car doors slam in unison and the van pulls out of its lot, driving quietly through the gravel road around the front of the school. Bertholdt peers out the window, but the two officers at the front door have retreated inside, their cigarette butts smashed on the front porch. The grounds seem quiet, undisturbed, as if nothing has happened. Reiner drives the van cautiously, but the silent morning puts a fresh bout of confidence in him. In that moment, it seems like they are going to make it.

“I told you,” he says as the van pulls away from the school. “We have a head start.”

Bertholdt is about to respond when his eyes catch something moving in the rear view mirror. Reiner glances up; his heart sinks. Darting down the front steps as if to chase them is Mikasa, undeterred by the blood soiling her track uniform. Behind her, the two detectives follow.

“They saw us,” Bertholdt exclaims.

“Fuck,” Reiner hisses, and he hits the gas.

The van peals off into the woods. The tires rocket along the rough road, kicking up dirt in their wake. Inside the van, Bertholdt leans back against his seat, his arms splayed out, and closes his eyes, praying. Reiner grips the wheel tighter. Blood seeps through the tie wrapped around his hand, but he ignores it, focused on the road before him. The sun rises steadily over the hills, and its light dapples through the forest canopy, casting silver spots across the dark road. The van speeds through the light and dark, and Reiner imagines what is on the other side of these woods: a green valley, full of golden light and tall wildflowers that dance in the summer breeze. If they’re fast enough, if they just keep going-

He’s jerked out of his reverie when a police siren suddenly wails somewhere behind them.

“Reiner, this is insane,” Bertholdt exclaims, sitting up in his seat. He grabs Reiner’s shoulder, glancing nervously out the back window. “I don’t know what I was thinking, but we can’t outrun them! They’re going to catch us!”

“We just have to keep going,” Reiner says. He presses harder on the gas, but the pedal is all the way down. “We can still make it.”

“No, we can’t,” Bertholdt cries. He squeezes Reiner’s shoulder. “Please, just slow down.”

“We can do it, Bert-”

“No, we can’t!” Bertholdt yells, grabbing the wheel.

They spin out of control. The wheel jerks wildly beneath Reiner and Bertholdt’s hands, sending them flying backward against their seats as the van whirls across the road. The tires shriek in the dirt. The van spins around once, then twice, and throws its passengers every which way with the weight of its momentum. It happens so quickly that when the van finally squeals to a stop, skewed halfway off the road, Reiner and Bertholdt are suddenly thrown back into the present, their faces against the dashboard, wondering what the hell just happened. Reiner sits up, breathing hard, and clutches his fingers around the steering wheel, just to make sure it’s still. He glances across at Bertholdt, who peels himself up from the dashboard, his whole body trembling. A trickle of red runs down Bertholdt’s temple.

“You’re bleeding,” Reiner exclaims, reaching across to touch him.

Bertholdt clutches a hand to his forehead and his fingers come away with blood. “What?” he says breathlessly, then sees the blood. “Oh.”

“It looks bad,” Reiner murmurs, but Bertholdt shakes his head, blinking slowly.

“I’m fine. It’s not as bad as your hand.”

He tries to smile, but the blood continues to stream down his face, leaving red trails across his skin. Reiner watches the way he winces as he touches the wound on his scalp, and his heart suddenly weighs heavy with so much regret, so much sorrow. He clutches a hand to his mouth, overcome.

“Bert,” he says, suddenly chocking back a sob, “I’m so sorry.”

Bertholdt looks up, dazed and startled, and he sits wide-eyed, blood running down his face as he watches Reiner fight the tears that flood his eyes.

“This was so stupid,” Reiner cries, slamming a fist against the dashboard. “What was I thinking? We were never going to make it! Oh, _god_ , this is all my fault.”

“Don’t say that,” Bertholdt exclaims, reaching across his grab his hands.

“You were right,” Reiner exclaims, his breath hitching on a sob. He swallows hard, shaking his head at a loss for words, then takes a deep breath and says, “I should have just listened to you. God, you were right, I should have known this would never work.”

“If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine,” Bertholdt exclaims, leaning in towards Reiner. “I’m the one who pushed Eren! I wasn’t thinking, Reiner, I just wanted him to be gone, and when you said that we could make it, I just wanted it to be true, I just wanted-”

He cuts himself off, suddenly fraught with tears.

“I’m sorry, Reiner,” Bertholdt gasps through a wrecking sob. “I’m sorry, I’ve let you down-”

The rest of his words fly out of his chest as a sharp gasp when Reiner lunges across his seat and grabs Bertholdt by the shoulders, slamming him into a violent hug. Reiner holds him close, his arms wrapped tightly around Bertholdt’s shoulders, and squeezes him. Bertholdt shakes beneath his touch, his breath quick and shallow; he slides is hands around Reiner’s back, pressing him close, and cries against his shoulder

“Don’t say that,” Reiner whispers. “You could never let me down.”

“I’ve ruined everything,” Bertholdt cries. “I should have just turned myself in.”

“No, I’ll take the blame,” Reiner murmurs. “I’ll tell them it was all me.”

Bertholdt wrangles his way out of the fierce embrace, shaking his head. “No,” he exclaims, his voice growing stronger through his tears. “No, you won’t.”

“I don’t want you to get hurt-”

“I’m the one who pushed him.”

“But-”

“We’re in this together, remember?” Bertholdt exclaims, staring at Reiner. “That was the deal right from the start. That was what we agreed.”

He grasps Reiner’s hands and squeezes them. “I’m not giving up on you.”

Bertholdt smiles, a profound love filling his eyes. Reiner leans forward and kisses him. He grabs Bertholdt by the jaw, his hands clasping over Bertholdt’s cheekbones, and pulls him close to press their lips together. He tastes the salt of Bertholdt’s tears and he only kisses him fiercer for it. It’s like a fire he has never felt before: a desperate grasp for life rushing through his veins. He lets it take hold of him as he kisses Bertholdt, pulling him closer and closer. Bertholdt responds in kind and grabs Reiner by the shoulders, letting his hands travel upwards, to his collarbones, his neck, his jaw. Bertholdt’s fingers are cold against his skin and his fingernails press a little too hard into Reiner’s scalp when he clutches at his hair. Reiner doesn’t care. He would give anything to make this moment last forever.

Something flashes in the rearview mirror. Reiner jerks upright, pulling away from Bertholdt, and whirls around to glance at the side mirror. There’s a dancing red light somewhere down the road, and it’s growing ever closer. He turns back around to face Bertholdt and catches the stony look on his face.

“What are we going to do?” he asks, taking Bertholdt’s hands gently in his own. “I’m not going to let them take you.”

“And I’m not going to let them take _you_ ,” Bertholdt exclaims, squeezing Reiner’s fingers.

“What do we do?” Reiner repeats. “We can’t outrun them. We won’t surrender.”

“We can still end this,” Bertholdt says breathlessly, “on our own terms.”

They stare at each other for a moment, both of them covered in blood and tears. Then Reiner turns away, shifts the van back into gear, and squeals the tires through the dirt as the car tears back onto the road.

Reiner drives in determined silence, his fingers clutching so hard against the steering wheel that his skin turns white and his hand oozes blood. His heart pounds like it never has before and his throat seems so dry that he can hardly breathe. The flashing lights haven’t caught up to them yet, but they’re getting steadily closer in the rearview mirror, dancing through the line of dark trees that line the road. Reiner presses harder on the gas, but it is to no avail: the sirens get louder.

It doesn’t matter much, anyhow. He knows where he’s going and it’s just up the road.

The van slows as it approaches the familiar sign: _Lake Stohess, two miles_. Reiner turns onto the dark, dirt road without a word, just a small glance across at Bertholdt, who looks back, his eyes solemn but firm. He nods, and Reiner keeps driving, his heart racing in time with the engine.

Sunlight spills across the hood of the van when it finally rears into the clearing. Muddy tires roll to a stop on the bank of the swamp, and Reiner shuts off the engine, letting the morning silence overtake them. They clamber out of the van without a word to one another, and they meet again at the shore of the lake, their faces pale, their eyes wide. They stand beside each other, staring out over the surface of the swamp. It sits just like it did last week: green and still, with the smallest signs of life. The sunrise ripples off the surface of the water and dances across the wings of a dragonfly. On the other side of the swamp, a handful of ibis weave through the weeds, plucking at insects with their long beaks. The swamp seems endless. It sinks deep into the forest, swallowing the roots of the slumbering trees until they are completely consumed by the water.

Reiner breaks away and stumbles forward, wading ankle deep into the swamp. The water is cool and soaks through his socks, but he hardly notices. He stares over the green swamp, despondent, and tries to control his breathing. He can’t. He sucks in air at an unnatural pace and he only expels it when his lungs fill up and he cannot take it anymore. He pants when he releases the breath, then gasps for air and does the same thing over again. The swamp weaves in and out of his vision as he tries to steady himself in the shallow water. For a moment, it seems as if the entire world will go black; and then he is brought back by the only thing that could save him: a soft voice calling him from behind.

He turns around slowly, the water knocking against his legs. Bertholdt stands there on the shore, staring at him with pale eyes. The blood running down his forehead has ceased to flow, but the collar of his shirt is stained with vibrant splotches of red. He stands there quietly, and he stares with the hopeless plea of a boy at the end of his rope.

“Reiner,” he murmurs, and Reiner’s heart clenches.

“I know,” is all Reiner can say.

Bertholdt swallows the sob that he’s been holding in, but another fresh bout of silent tears pour from his eyes, trailing wet tracks down his red cheeks. His arms hang limply by his sides. He stares at Reiner, his face heavy with the sudden gravity of everything that’s happened, everything they’ve done, and he moves forward slowly, shuffling towards Reiner until the toes of his shoes meet the edge of the water.

Reiner wades towards him. “It’s okay,” he mutters.

Bertholdt smiles wryly, choking back a laugh. “No, it isn’t,” he says. “Reiner, it’s not okay. Reiner, what the fuck have we done?”

Nothing sounds in the swamp around them. It seems eerily quiet for a late spring morning, but they hear no frogs creaking, no songbirds chirping, no creatures shuffling through the forest around them. They stand alone, together: just them and the water.

“None of this needed to happen,” Bertholdt cries, throwing out his hands. “I mean, what was the worst Marco would have done? Tell the dean what he saw? What could she have done? She couldn’t have kept us from seeing each other, I mean, we live together!”

Reiner feels another sob well up in his throat. “She could have told our parents,” he says.

His words, soft and low, echo around the swamp and seem to catch Bertholdt in the midst of his fit. He stops, his mouthing hanging open, his eyes wide, and he stares at Reiner.

“I don’t know about your parents,” Reiner says solemnly, “but mine would have killed me.”

Bertholdt’s lip trembles. “They would have sent me away.”

Reiner wants to hold him. Reiner wants to take Bertholdt by the hand and bring him in close and hold him forever. He wants to feel their hearts as one. He wants to wrap his arms around Bertholdt, feel the warmth of his body, and keep him close, keep him safe, keep them together forever and always. If he takes that hand, he will never let go.

The police sirens sound in the distance.

Wordlessly, Reiner raises an arm. He holds it out to Bertholdt, for Bertholdt, reaching for him without another thought. Bertholdt moves towards him slowly, wading into the shallow water. He takes Reiner’s hand and holds it firmly, a determined light rising in his eyes. Their hands are warm together, and Reiner squeezes his fingers, feeling the gentle pulse of Bertholdt’s heartbeat through his veins.

“You know how much I love you,” he murmurs.

Bertholdt’s smile is bittersweet. “And how much I love you.”

Flashing red lights appear through the trees. The police must have known that they would come to the lake. Their cars will come tearing down the road at any minute.

Reiner turns around, still holding tightly onto Bertholdt’s hand, and he stares out over the vast expanse of the swamp. The water lies still, only rippled by the touch and go of dragonflies skimming across its glassy green surface. The sun has finally risen; it glares a beam down onto the clearing, and the light shines on the water, casting a warm glow across the rushes and cattails that line the shore. Reiner feels Bertholdt come up beside him in the water. They stand for a moment, in a dead silence, only the sirens echoing through the woods- and then Bertholdt speaks.

“Let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith,” he says.

Reiner looks up at him, startled by the clarity of his voice.

“Having our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience,” Bertholdt continues, staring down at his reflection, “and our bodies washed with pure water.”

Bertholdt turns to look at him. His eyes reflect the morning sun, and they shine purely under its silver light. He does not smile, but Reiner feels his heart well up with love.

Their hands remain firmly joined as they walk into the lake. Water rolls against their legs, rippling across the surface as it lets them pass without a fight. It is cold against their skin, soaking shivers into their bones as they wade deeper into the swamp, but it beckons them with the sparkling sunlight that dances across its surface, and it folds around them as they sink further into its grasps: hips, elbows, shoulders.

The world is quiet, even as the police cars peal into the clearing of the swamp. The red lights glimmer across the water, but they do not hear the sirens. They hear only each other: their hearts beating in rhythm as they bleed for forgiveness.

The swamp grows deeper, cooler, gentler. Reiner feels the water engulf his body, his neck, his lips. He feels Bertholdt’s hand, warm in his grasp, and he knows that he is ready. He takes a deep breath and he lets the flashing lights disappear beneath the water.


End file.
